


Teacher's Pet

by Vinyloider



Category: Bill Hader - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Reader-Insert, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 57,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24152014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vinyloider/pseuds/Vinyloider
Summary: A slow-burn romance between you, a college film student, and your Professor Bill Hader.
Relationships: Bill Hader/Reader, Pete Davidson & Reader, Saoirse Ronan & Reader, Taron Egerton & Reader, Taron Egerton/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	1. Tardy!

**Author's Note:**

> By writing real people into this story I mean no disrespect, and I don't mean to insinuate that I believe they'd behave in any of the ways they do here. I am essentially using people for their face- and name-claim and attaching that to the 'character' they are in this story for the sake of entertainment.

_“Tardy,”_ he says like it’s your name. Daring to move across the classroom, your shoes squeak. It pains you as it echoes louder than the collective movement of everyone looking at you — the one behind the heavy plated door that squeaks open and slams shut mid-lecture.

_He_ , Professor Hader, _Mr. Hader_ , sighs your name.

More than anyone, his disappointment strikes you. He gestures the board behind him, class topics written with his messy hand. You click your tongue in understanding and watch him run his hand along his jaw before he taps his desk, waiting for you to take your seat.

You wave him off, “I know, _I know_ ,” ignoring your flushed cheeks and putting on ‘your voice.’ On a bad day, he would simply snap at you despite the albeit _playful_ viscosity that just has too _sharp_ of a sting to it. Thankfully, you haven’t made it to that day yet. 

Hader leans over his desk, his fingers splayed on the sides of a pile of papers he collected at the beginning of class. You pull yours out of your bag (crisp, neatly formatted), and present it to him while he’s pinching his nose.

“I _know_ I said I wouldn’t be late ‘next time’ the last time I was late–” 

“You mean yesterday?” He gulps after mumbling with a distance grumble at the back of his throat. “When you were late?” He’s smiling, but he glares.

You flaunt your paper under his face and go, “Hey,” in a voice to soothe him. “At least I turn my work in?”

“At least…” He takes the paper and drops it in the pile. 

You walk backward, chin up, and smirking. Hader rolls his eyes and the acknowledgment is enough to have you turning. “Anyways!” He announces, eyes digging into the back of you as you sit in the front row. “Let me continue…”

* * *

Your sass of the morning instills something deeper in you – an urge to put your legs up on your desk, an urge to interrupt and yell out the way _you_ interpret film critique (more than the usual urge, at least), an urge to disregard his teaching and teach for yourself if not to prove yourself and have a fun go at it, then to irk him.

But by the end of class, it wears off and you remember the flush on your cheeks from being ogled by an entire lecture hall and that pit of disappointment you felt. 

Hader gives his final notes, students packing up and his voice gets louder as the cacophony begins. 

Most are headed out the door and down the steps in the center aisle. You slip away from your desk and shoulder your bag. You’re over by his desk right as he sits down, and you tap your knuckles where his eyes meet.

Hader rubs his temples and rises. He looks at you with a flat smile. 

“Can I help you?” He tries to be polite.

As usual, not a lick of regret appears on your face – your eyes wide, cheeks high, something optimistic and dismissive of this morning’s debacle. If only he heard the screaming from your insides. 

But it drops, a brush on your shoulder from a passerby freezing you, and Hader furrows his brows. He bends his knees ready to look up at you, worriedly question you, hold your shoulders and gently shake the explanation to your troubles out of you. But you roll your shoulder and with it the feeling of touch off. You smile at him and almost as normal, continue. 

But your voice is slightly detached. “Yeah-yeah sorry,” you say, “I want to do something about my penalties?”

You close your eyes and shake your head out, rephrase it with a stronger sense of where you’re going. “I mean if it’s possible. Because we can’t deny that regardless, _I’m doing pretty good in your class_.” Ah, there you are, smug and confident.

He’s slow to sit back down. “Yeah, you are…”

“So?” You hold your arms out. “Is there anything I can do?”

Hader’s grabs the stack of papers and taps them into a neat square, not a page out of place. You raise your brows at it, eye him intently and when he catches you he sighs and looks at the last students slipping through the door. 

“Listen…I’ll ahh…” He stands (again) and raps his fingers against the desk, breath hitched, jaw clenched. “I’ll take a few off if you help me grade some papers, okay?”

“O…kay…?” You chuckle, “No big deal.” He goes and props the door open, kicking a door-stopper into the corner. You turn in a circle as he does, and follow him as he rounds his desk. “Just this once?” You drop your bag in front of his desk. 

He snaps his fingers into a point in your face. Warning, his chin dipped and brows raised, “ _Just this once_. Cause you’re not going to be late after this, right?”

You hiss “Right…” and rock on your heels. _You know damn well enough…_

He tidies his desk and you look for a chair. Before you is a _whole_ lecture hall with chairs _studded_ into the ground, and not a single free one other than the one he’s going to sit on.

“Hm,” he grunts and taps his desk with one knuckle. “Stay here, I’ll go get you one.”

“No no that’s fine I can just…uh?” You pat his desk and the cleared-off corner. He waves his hand (’be my guest’) with a sigh and you hop up and settle.

He sniffles and mutters “O- _kaayyyy_ …” Grabbing the papers again, he taps them against his desk to get them back into that neat square (again, not a paper out of place), then splits the pile in two. He hands you one, his turn to get settled. 

Flipping through the corners, you see you don’t have yours. While wondering how that would’ve played out, you hear the jingle of his pens in their tin.

He flips a pen between his fingers and hands it to you – red – his head down and his own pen of choice in his free hand poised like he’s holding a cigarette. He rhythmically taps the pen on the desk, waiting for you to pluck it from him. When you do you wiggle it between your fingers and too hold it like a cig, then observe your papers again.

“Wh…” you huff and bite your lip. 

Hader looks over your hunched shoulder. You turn to give him a better look. He stretches and pads the paper with his finger, explains in a low voice with that distant grumble, “Name and titles fine, just look for bad grammar, usual stuff.” 

Seems easy enough. _But –_ _?_

“Do I…write notes or anything?” You wave the stack over your lap. He sucks his lips in and looks up, at first already lost in his grading. His jaw drops and he lets out long hum, before looking back at his work. 

“Umm, _no,_ you don’t need to.”

“Oh.” You deflate and set the stack back on your lap. Take that as it is – _you tell yourself_ – but wouldn’t it be all that more exciting to tear students to pieces, put others on a higher pedestal? “Why not?” You ask and raise the papers as you observe the stack. 

Hader clears his throat and drops his pen to lock his fingers together. “Uhm, well.” He shrugs and forces a smile. “You guys don’t read the notes anyway.” 

You blink and with that take the cap off your pen. He hears you let out this small _wisp_ of breath, irritated, offended even. You can’t deny that statement entirely. However, ‘ _I read them’_ , you _want to_ say. He knows that. He watches you slouch as you lazily scan through the first page of your first paper, tapping the ink prematurely in the corner as you wait for the time to use it to come.

“I mean,” he blinks at the ceiling and runs his tongue over his lips, thinking. “You can if you _want_. But just…” He holds his palm out, _‘take it easy,’_ it says. You flash back a slightly better smile. Not to terribly offended to begin with, but the air of the room is particularly sour – all circumstances in mind, his looming approval of you at stake.

After some silence and you scribbling simpler notes _“Capitalize this!” “Capitalize that!”_ (though not exactly – specific grammatical phrases I don’t care to remember now), Hader sighs. 

“ _Some-”_ he stretches, his lips _pop_ when he’s done, “students read the notes.” 

You look back, chin on your shoulder. You swear he flashes a quick smile. But his head is dipped after that. He clears his throat and runs his tongue over his lips. “Just saying, don’t put your heart and soul into it. _Okay?”_ He says as though asking you to promise to him.

And you say, “Wasn’t planning on it.” You chuckle and rest your elbow on your thigh, and your chin on your hand. “Who, though?” He hums, you repeat, “Who reads them? The notes?” 

He groans “I don’t know–” lists some names off you scarcely recognize and care to remember. “ _You.”_

You gasp and look over your shoulder. Your voice perks, playful and teasing, _offended_ if you look deeper into it. “Do I?” 

Hader sputters and flips a page. “Psh, couldn’t say for _sure.”_ He whispers and while thinking to say it out loud, he bobbles his head around. His voice bounces with the movement. “I mean, you _seem_ like you read the notes.”

You hum intrigued. 

“You’re not _bad_ at your work,” he speaks your name but so soft and restrained. “You’re just _late_. Like–” He scoffs and looks at you. “ _All_ the time — _a lot._

You hiss. It actually hurts, you could say. This is a budding argument about how _“You have so much potential,”_ you can feel it. Not something to get from arguably your favorite teacher who you objective argue with the most. You chuckle to dull the pain of the sting. “Heh, yeah…” You sniffle and look down.

“Which is _why_ ,” he mutters, “I offered this.” 

You hum. “'Preciate it.” 

You look at the clock – 𝟮:𝟬𝟱.

It’s that type of situation where no matter how many times he _may_ offer his condolences, rephrasing to ease the blow, disappointment still lingers. 

Then there’s the creeping irritation of having to stay late. Of throwing so much time away. You could be with your friends ( _partying even, I dunno),_ getting other work done, letting it waste away while you contemplate on Adderall too hazy to think right anyway. You look at the clock again – 𝟮:𝟬𝟲.

 _Alright then_ , you think, and get grading. 

* * *

𝟯:𝟯𝟬 and you’re pensively writing away – caught in the intricacies of your current essay. You plucked a blue pen off Hader’s desk, irking, so keen on getting your thoughts down before they fizzled into nothingness that you pulled the cap off with your teeth and kept it in the corner of your lips for a majority of the reading. Hader saw you and smiled softly. At least you’re interested in what you’re doing, no reason for him to berate you.

But knowing with every _yelp_ and _laugh_ out in the hall that most are off to electives, to study _(or party, I dunno)_ , and do what not, gets to you.

You stop and hold your pen tight, snap your neck to the door, and with another round of giggles you groan and get up. Hader sits straight to watch you. You kick the door-stop into the hallway and he hisses and presses his fist to his lips. 

You squint at him and hold the door open. “This okay?”

“Actually wait can you…not?” He keeps his fist pressed.

You point over your shoulder. “But, isn’t bothered you too? I mean, I don’t _mind_ , I just thought–” 

“Well,” He sighs, “They are but….y’know what–” he waves his hand down, “nevermind. You can close it.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” He flashes a smile and shakes his hair out. You let the door close and look into the hallway till the moment it’s shut. You can still hear the shenanigans, but now they’re farther off. 

Sitting back on his desk, you see him finish with an essay and set it to the side. His newest one was written by _you_ , and already dealing with the embarrassment, you choke. You try to turn it into a laugh but it comes out strangled as you look away and try not to think about how he’ll begin silently judging you. You’ll probably catch him writing critique notes in the corner of your eye. Nothing’s more uncomfortable than someone reading your work in front of you. 

“What?” He laughs.

You groan “Oh God…” and rub your temples. You try to steady your head straight forward to where you can’t see him. He hisses in understanding and waves the paper closer to you.

After another groan, he pulls it back and clicks his tongue. “What’s so scary? Y’know I’m not gonna _berate_ you, you’re a top in the class…”

“Still gross knowing you’re doing it in front of me.” 

“I _guess_.” He clears his throat and starts reading aloud– your name, his name, his class, date of turn in. You physically lurch and he laughs. 

“You know I’m honestly just going to take the penalties if you _vocally_ grade it in front of me.”

“Eh, no you’re not.” He starts with the first paragraph. 

“Oh geez…” you palm your face and let out an obnoxious sigh. You roll your eyes and your neck to bear into his soul but he ignores it. You break your concentration for a moment and watch him squint and looks closer. You wonder with half a mind for the possible aesthetic not for how ‘good’ it would be for him — why isn’t he wearing glasses?

You _manage_ to ignore him for the most part but can only focus on grading grammar – unable to get him out of your head long enough to form extensive thoughts on each paper’s content and collective prose. 

“ _Oooh..”_ He chirps and your heart stops. “ _That’s interesting_.” 

“Hate you,” you mumble, and hide your face in your hands while he smirks and grabs a blue pen. 

* * *

𝟱:𝟬𝟱 and you’re sitting on the floor your stretch your legs out in front of you and aching from letting them dangle the rest of your time here. The irritation of still being here is getting to you now. Hader can _hear_ you – tapping your pen on the floor when there’s nothing to write about.

The commotion outside has stopped. 

And after he finished up your paper and slapped it onto the ‘complete’ pile that discomfort in your stomach stopped and with nothing there to keep you at least mildly pumped. Boredom took over. 

You look up and through the door’s small window, see how outside the sun’s dimmer and on its way to set. Ah yes, _that’s_ what happens this time of year. 

And though the light in here hasn’t changed (yet), you’re aware of how empty and cold it is, the stale air, how time (despite the clock above the door) _seems_ to have stopped while it hasn’t.

If you weren’t here it would be seven or eight by now and you’d only be aware of _half_ the time you’ve been here. 

You huff and roll your eyes. 

Hader hears you but doesn’t say anything. He’s getting done with the last few notes in his pile. He’ll come to fetch the rest of yours up soon. You look at the wall and press your cheek to the cold side of his desk. 

“Do you do this every night?” you ask.

He hitches his breath, thinking up an answer “Not _every_ night…This is screenwriting, not film studies, you guys barely have any essays…” 

You look at the clock again: 𝟱:𝟬𝟳

“Been here for like, three hours.” 

“Yeah, _well_ –” He hisses, _‘this is what you got yourself into’_ is how you interpret it. But just then he scoots his chair back and gets up. His steps shake the floor then he’s standing above you, holding his hand out and making a grabby motion. You furrow your brows but hold up your pile except for the one in your lap. He takes it then glares for you to give him another one. 

“No no–” you insist, “I got it.” 

Hader closes his eyes, the bags under them ever prominent and his posture slackens. “No I– _I got it_. Give it.” You pout and hand it to him. As he sits back down you hop up and slap your hands to your thighs. The light-headedness jolts you for a moment, and you lean forward over the desk by his side,

“So…what do I do now?”

He yawns. “You can go now. Got other work, right?”

“Uhm, no?” You look outside to the waning sunlight. “Not really.” 

“Probably hungry?”

“I guess.” You look back at him and he’s resting his head in his hand, his fingers pushed into his locks. “But really, I don’t–” 

He says your name. It’s strict but the way he lowers his chin and looks at you from behind one raised brow (and the assuring tug at his lips) doesn’t make it look so harrowing. “Just go. Seriously, you’ve been a great help.” 

You hum and take a breath. “Well, alright then…” You bend slowly to get your bag, then stamp your foot once it’s over your shoulder just in case the sound and jolt could be a reminder that he does still need your help. At least a little bit more of it. He doesn’t budge and you watch him grade as his tongue pokes past his lips.

“Want me to get you anything?” You ask. 

“No, I’m good.” 

You bite your lip. There’s a Starbucks on campus. That’s something. “How do you like your coffee?” He tilts his head, still grading. “Or….do you like bagels or croissants? Those little English muffin sandwiches?”

“Don’t get me anything,” He begs (though not in angry desperation). 

You sigh “Alright,” but still stand there. You can’t let this man go on with his night grading while hungry. “Hypothetical question–” he pinches the bridge of his nose and drops his pen. You point to the sky and start to pose said question while he runs his hands over his face and groans into them. “How would you like your coffee if you could have some right now, and which sounds better between a bagel, English muffin, and croissant?”

Mr. Hader drops his hands to the desk. “I don’t know,” he says, exasperated. “Probably a caramel latte…and a croissant.”

You press your lips tight, impressed. “Nice to know…well, Mr. Hader. Thank you for taking a few penalties off my grade and I will see you _tomorrow_.” You roll your wrist as you do a little bow, then head out. 

He’s left biting his lip and staring into the space you once stood in. He hums, not used to your playfulness when it’s outside of insulting or challenging him. 

But he likes it. 

* * *

𝟱:𝟯𝟱 – “Caramel latte and a croissant?” And it was only a fifteen-minute walk to, then from. Hader is slow to look at you. He didn’t even hear the door open, but as he looks from the corner of his eye he makes a point to notice it’s closed again and you’re the only two on this side of it. He finally looks at you, so used to the painful silence by now and being aware of his loneliness. But there you are – _caramel latte and a croissant_ in hand. And your own drink and bagged accessory in the other. 

You hold the drink over his desk with the bagged croissant dangling between your closed fingers. 

He reaches and mutters “Thank you.” 

You see he’s almost done. Just one more paper left (but that pile on _his_ left is still high and frightening, a reminder of your past) and he’ll be free. You smile as he looks down and scratches his scalp. Then you sit on the corner of the desk (for old times sake) and sip your drink. 

“You’re still here?” He asks. He doesn’t sound mean about it or disgusted. Just wondering,

“Eh,” you shrug, “Why not?” And dig into the treat you got yourself. 

He’s done by the time you’ve finished eating and he gives a content sigh. Groaning at the time lost, he stands up. You watch him as he does, watch him collect the now completed pile and put it in his bag with the rest of his stuff to be dealt with when morning comes.

You wait for him by the door, propping it open with your back. He presses it open with spread fingers and nudges you through before he turns the light up and locks the room up. You’re not sure why you’re walking with him out of the building. He’s not sure either, but neither of you protest. You just don’t say anything. No, not until you get outside where you stand awkwardly waiting for the other to depart on their path.

“Uhm…see you…next class?” You offer. 

He runs his tongue over his lips and looks around. “Uh, yeah. You’re just in the dorms over there?” He points lazily as he comes to hold his coffee in both hands and fiddle with the cardboard sleeve. “Right?” At this time of night, it’s starting to get chilly.

You scoff and say “I wish. I uh,” you scratch behind your ear and mention your apartment complex. It’s a nice, cozy place. You don’t have a roommate, you have enough freedom, a room for an office _and_ a room for a bed, but —

“Geez, no wonder you’re always late,” he scoffs. “That’s like a forty minute walk.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Do you want me to like…” you both squint off into the sunset. Not quite there yet, but you see the blur of orange approaching. He shrugs “Drive you home?” He looks at your profile as you still gaze that direction. He freezes when his words register and you visibly tense. But you also smile. A genuine sort of smile, not out of force or fear. 

“Uhm, _actually_ …I like the walk. I mean, _long_ , maybe, but it’s an interesting route.” You’ve never been given the opportunity to _not_ walk but you can’t bring yourself to take it. No, not now…

“Oh.” Hader squints and shoves one hand in his pocket. He holds his latte by the lid. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Anyways, uh–” You turn and hold your hand out. “Thanks, again.” 

“Oh, of-of course.” He squeezes his eyes shut as though to spark or capture something in his memory, and when they open he’s smiling at you, a genuine sort of smile, not out of sarcasm and glee at your demise. He (still holding the latte by its lid much to your paranoia) shakes your hand, and then you’re off. 

As you walk down the path, you look over your shoulder and offer a gentle wave. He gives one back, just as gentle, a little more hesitant. He hums to himself, watching for a while before he blinks hard and turns the other way, off to his car. 

_What a weird but simple night,_ he thinks, fiddling with his keys.


	2. Not Late, Technically!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You aren't late like last time. Rather, entirely absent. Hader gets worried, you try to explain, yada yada -- doesn't exactly justify why you stay so late and let him drive you home.

_“Late,”_ he says with waning finality as he turns and sees that no, it’s not you. It’s another student – a friend of yours, clutching her bag and so much less interested than you when you waltz into a room. She hardly acknowledges him, only when he taps his foot and clears his throat. Because you may be late but at least you’re never absent. Except for today, he supposes. 

He asks where you are, she stops and looks behind her. 

She’s expectant at first and he flairs with some excitement, but she proves herself a false alarm with “Oh uh, told me to tell you she’s not coming today. Emergency, or something.” 

His brows jump up, and with a sputtering “Oh oh…huh.” He shakes his curiosity and visual traces of worry away. Just an absence. Not _that_ weird, anyway. 

‘Emergency’ can constitute anything…from the _severe-severe_ to the _still not fine but at least not severe_. “Well, okay…” he blinks hard and stands straight. “As I was saying-” 

* * *

You knock on the classroom door in the ‘late’ night. It’s not too late, no later than you stayed last night, but you’re a welcome albeit startling surprise. 

Hader opens the door and there you are, bundled up for the night and looking energized as ever (again, despite the _night_ ). He traces your face for a little too long, unable to see a remnant of anything solemn that an ‘emergency’ would warrant. So he’s cautious, but perhaps _glad_ (if not tricked and curious) things didn’t wind up as bad as could be…

“Oh!” He whispers your name, separate and in question. Whispered right after he pokes his head into the hall and sees you’re by yourself. “You uh- I heard you were having an emergency of some kind…” he looks you up and down. “You alright?”

You hum and nod. But you still haven’t talked. 

He moves to let you in, muttering a “Sorry…” for the wait. You observe the room as though you haven’t been in it for such a long time. 

The door closes with a soft _click._ He keeps his hands against it to make sure of it, make sure it makes no echo. Only your shoes make an echo as you walk deeper into the room. Then there’s an echo when Hader follows. He holds his breath and wonders if it’s appropriate to ask: “Are you okay? Do you…need anything?”

( _“Today’s Powerpoint, notes, slides?”_ He would ask, but he doesn’t want to be so formal with that.)

One last echo as you turn to him ( _squeak_ go your shoes) and take a deep breath. your shoes that’ll come before you both don’t feel so obliged to hold your breath and bite your tongue. You turn to him and take a deep breath.

_“Yes_. I have a confession to make.” You spit out.

He crosses his arm and stretches his neck forward. “Oh?”

“There wasn’t really an emergency.” You roll your eyes up and bounce your head a bit, straining “ _Okay maybe there kinda was if you think about it_ – that’s not the point. The only reason why I was absent is because I uh…” You smile nervously and throw your hands out, let them slap your thighs, “Would’ve been—”

“Late?” He nods along with you. 

“Otherwise…yeah.” You force a chuckle. You head to his desk and with a nod of his approval, you hop on. This time as he sits in his chair you swing your legs around and dangle them over the other side so you face him. “But I kept my promise, didn’t I? Wasn’t _late_.” 

“Nope.” He flashes a smile. “’Just absent!’” He mimics the enthusiasm he imagined you would say that in. A mischievous enthusiasm – the kind when you didn’t _really_ do anything wrong, or you did something wrong _but hey it worked out in the end! You didn’t get caught!_ That kind. 

“Exactly!” There you go with that coy tinge. 

He pushes his laptop screen up to continue working with a soft groan and roll of his eyes. You can’t get a good look, it’s all on his computer and straining to look at his screen in the dim-lit room is a bit too much.

“Oh!” You remember your bag (still on your back) and stretch to pull a Starbucks drink out of the side-pouch where it’s been held tight with a fishnet texture. You ‘jingle’ it in front of him and the way he tries to hide how his cheeks rise, makes your cheeks flush. 

He tilts his head to the side and goes _“Well,”_ joy downplayed as he takes it. “Thank you.” he says and nods at you before taking a sip. He hisses at the heat, surprised it lasted so long with however cold it is outside. 

But it’s a nice heat. 

“No problem…” you tap your thighs and shiver as a stray gust from the air conditioning gets you.

It _is_ quite cold outside. All the more excuse you gave yourself to _not_ head to classes today. You got work done anyhow. Upcoming work, _your own work_ (writing, drawing, jam sessions, whatever), arguable work based on completion and _not_ subject matter (finishing a season of that new show on Hulu or Netflix). 

You hold yourself and hide your neck in the hood of your jacket. You let out a few puffs and Hader takes his drink away like it’s hotter than hot, like he’s been reminded of something very urgent.

“You-you uh? Didn’t get yourself one?” He raises his drink a bit.

“Yeah.” You swipe your hand over your cold nose. “Wait, no I mean–” You squeeze your eyes shut and groan, “I _did!_ I got myself one, just drank it on the way over here.” 

“Oh…okay. Well, thank you.” He raises his drink again. “Truly, for this.”

You wave him off. “No problem, no problem…passed it on my way over here, figured you’d be here and might want one.” _As though it’s not further down campus than the building is on your way over._

Hader hums, intrigued.

He brushes his lips against the lid and speaks in a gravely tone that echoes into the cup through the small slit. “ _And what would you do if I wasn’t?”_

You shrug. “Just drink it myself. You have good taste, I wouldn’t mind it.” 

_Would it be weird for him to ask if you cared to have some?_

_Maybe. Probably. Definitely,_ he thinks and reels back.

He clears his throat and the tension. Asks “Wh-why would you–” (squeezes his eyes shut to get his thoughts on track) “–what was the point, y’know?” You raise a brow, not following. His voice has that detached quality as he strains to not sound _too_ interested. “Why’d you come in _now_ if not this morning. You know you could’ve just emailed me though.” 

You hiss. “Well…circumstances _happened_ to align (”mhm”) that would have guaranteed me late (”mhm”). So I opted to not come in altogether. And I just figured there was no harm in popping in to explain.”

Hader closes his eyes and puts his chin to his chest. The sound he makes sounds like you’re giving him a damn headache. You’re not, there’s just all sorts of things going on in his mind. “You know, I feel like it still would have been a lot easier to just come in _late_.” 

“Well last night we agreed that I wouldn’t be. And I kept my promise, right?”

“Suppose you did…but,” he folds his arms and leans back, “you shouldn’t have even come back again. Now you’ll sleep late and sleep in – _again_. And be late —”

You finish, “– _again_. I won’t. I promise.” You give him your pinkie. “ _Really_ this time.” He takes it with hesitance but brings his hand back afterward with a grin. You hold your drink between both hands and raise the lid to your lips, mumbling into it “ _Besides,_ I couldn’t leave you here so miserable and _lonely_ …” you chuckle and roll your eyes. 

“I am _not_ miserable, okay.” 

“So you don’t object that you’re lonely?”

Hader throws his head back and puts his hands to his face. He groans and you smirk, look around the room for a second with a creeping worry of somebody watching you. But it’s just you two, alone, again, in a big and bitter lecture hall. 

“I-I am _not-”_ He has one arm crossed over his stomach and his other raised and hand pointed to defend himself, but he can’t force the rest of his words out. He’s still teetering back and forth in his chair, rolling every which way with each rock of his body. “-lonely _all the time_ —”

“Didn’t say all the time. Just said like, usually right around _this_ time.”

“Okay okay – that’s different. This is work. So sure, usually I’m alone at this time of night but I don’t _really_ mind—” 

“’Lonely,’ not alone.” You _wink_ and click your tongue. “Fixed it for ya.” 

He sputters and squirms in his seat. All sophistication that comes with the title of ‘professor’ fizzles as he comes overwhelmed with a mix of embarrassment and something else. It’s fun seeing him so human and playful.

Oh the struggle of denying one’s anguish. 

“Okay I’m kidding – _I’m kidding…_ but come on!” You whine and reach to nudge his knee with your foot. He’s slinked down in the chair, coat riding up his back and his fingers splayed across his face to hide his blushing. “Isn’t company a little fun? Maybe even _nice_? Switching up your routine I mean –” you gesture the drink on his desk, “that’s a bit of a treat, surely? Just admit it, for me, please – _this is fun_.”

You dip your chin and look expectantly.

Hader groans and stands up, holding his armrests as he straightens his posture. “Fine – company’s nice, this is _fun, yada yada.”_

You brighten and smile at him. He smiles back and watches you from the corner of his eye. You’re watching him as he puts his things in his satchel. He’s got his feet planted, he’s towering over you as you slouch on his desk, and you just watch him in awe. 

“Alright alright – let’s go!” He announces and rounds his desk. 

You blink, lost in the aftermath, but get your bearings and hop off. You pat down your thighs to make sure you haven’t left anything then skip to the door. He holds the door and lets you slip through before he turns off the lights and locks the room. Just like last night, but either the coffee or your pushing has him a little more pumped. You could say you two are more vibrant and _willing_ to talk.

You may be willing but _what_ to talk about isn’t a no-brainer. 

He whistles through the wind, surprised at the cool air that rushes his lungs. He coughs on it and hisses at the sting (pleasant, but painful). 

“You walked here in _this_?” 

It’s that bitter cold. Where the air is crisp and the sky is light, but there’s no snow. 

“Y-yeah,” you stutter and fight your teeth from chattering. You wiggle your nose, the cold already getting to you. You weren’t inside long enough to warm up after the walk. Why exactly the poor kids at Starbucks are still working you don’t know why. There are still people around campus, bundled up on benches and huddled together, smoking the chill and night away.

“I can’t _reasonably_ let you walk 40 minutes in this.” 

You blink at him, the cool aching your lids. “No seriously, it’s–” you curse yourself as the chattering comes back and you can’t get warm enough to finish your damn sentence. 

Hader looks at you incredulously. He rolls his eyes and sniffles before taking a step back. “Alright. Uh, want me to drive you home?”

“I said, it’s _alright_.”

“It’s a forty-minute walk and you’re _chattering_.” 

“ _Oo!”_ Purely for the sake of ignoring this conversation and having to say _‘no’_ to something you very much want to say _‘yes’_ too, you spot the Starbucks on campus with it’s glowing sign and while there would be no reason for him to _not_ depart to his car now, you kind of wish he’ll come with you. And he does. Even if he hadn’t you would still be avoiding the conversation regardless. You would have still won (though ‘marginally’ less). You skip forth, rubbing your palms together and a stumped Professor Hader stands back, watching you. He looks at some of the students nearby and with a sigh he follows. 

First the store chimes for you, then a second time for him. The place (albeit small so it wouldn’t be that surprising) is empty except for a student here and there squeezing some work in on warm laptops that cast yellow light to their skin. 

You shake your shoulders and, perhaps with the question of _“What if he wasn’t there to accept your drink”_ and answering the question _he_ has of _“What if I offered some of my drink”_ you get an urge to order what you bought him – “Caramel latte please?”

Hader mouths ‘wow,’ impressed with _himself_. Honored, honestly. 

You’re rocking on your heels and he’s trying to keep his head down and avoid the other students. But then he sees you reach for your wallet, and he yelps enough to startle your wallet back into your pocket. 

“I-I got it–c’mon.” He holds your shoulders and moves you so he can pay. There he goes, swiping his card. You try to protest but that doesn’t work. You raise your arm to push his arm down, but he moves your hand back swiftly and gently. “ _Least I can do is pay you back,”_ he says, looking at you from behind his brows.

“Well, I’m not one to complain.” You smile and take your drink from.

Stepping outside you enjoy the contained silence — crunching leaves, the _slush_ of your drink in its cardboard containment, your soft breaths a little strained and wispy.

You watch his hair get rustled by the wind. It’s so fluffy, you note. The way his coat bundles around his neck _like_ a scarf overtop his sweater and the _bags_ under his eyes (you laugh at this thought–) makes him look like a student.

You notice he leads you down a way opposite the one you came. Scared shitless that you were supposed to go your own way just for him to turn around and wonder why you’re _following_ him, you halt and your shoes on the concrete catches his attention.

His breath hitches and he spits “So! Am I driving you home?” He takes a sip, looking so sly while he eyes you. 

“Really,” you insist, fighting through another round of chattering, “I’m fine to walk home.” You clutch your drink over your stomach.

Students pass. You quiet down as they pass. He hums when they’re gone, “Do you _want_ a ride home or not?” And steps closer. You bite your lip and pout, hoping he’ll make the decision for you.

After he raises a brow, you nod weakly, keeping your head down.

Hader takes a breath, mutters “alright then,” and turns around. He walks faster and in speeding up to stay with him you do warm up just a little bit. He takes his keys out and flips through them, mutters under his breath, pays no attention to where he’s going (it seems). 

“But _seriously_ – I don’t need you to if you have to go and like, do something.”

He says nothing.

You sniffle and walk closer when two students cross your path. He ignores your weight brushing his arm and how you _might_ be clutching his sleeve for security. 

“Isn’t this like, teacher-student something-something?”

He grimaces. “ _What?”_

_“Y’know,_ isn’t this like, not allowed?”

He shakes his head out, jaw slacked, as you come to the faculty parking lot. “No. This isn’t any of that. This is me making _surree_ …” he stretches as he hops off the sidewalk and onto the asphalt, even faster as he makes a beeline to his car. “That someone doesn’t get _hypothermia_.” 

“Ah…” you nod in understanding. 

“Besides, it would only really be _creepy_ if you were like, a high school student but you’re a freaking adult, I think most wouldn’t freak _too_ much about this.” You brush your arms rapidly as he unlocks his car and gets the passenger seat open for you.

He leans on the door with his elbow. “In,” he says, pointing. He hurries you up with a roll of his wrist and when you’re comfortably sat in it, he slams the door shut and comes around the front of the car to get into the driver’s seat. 

For the first time, he shows actual signs of being cold himself (though the warmth he emitted when you walked by him would say otherwise), letting out a coarse breath and breathing into his hands before he puts his key into the ignition. Curiosity has it’s intuition, and you take a sly peek around his car. You get cozy, pulling your backpack off and pulling it onto your lap. 

“Thank you,” you mumble, defeated.

He sighs “No problem…” as he pulls you out of the parking lot.

It’s (unfortunately) not a long drive but you slouch with your coat covering your face and your body nodding off. You have your arms crossed with your cup in one hand, your chin to your chest and head on the window. You close your eyes and let out a shuddering breath. 

Hader watches you.

“So…” He slows, turning back to the road. “Care to explain what ‘emergency’ you had, then…?” He lowers his voice, “Unless it really _was_ an emergency then-”

You squirm and yawn. “Just overslept. Woke up feeling like shit. The usual.” 

“The usual?” He raises his brows and peaks at you. “How ‘usual?’”

“Pretty usual.” You yawn again. “Just regular insomnia, nothing to worry about.”

“I-insomnia?” He looks again. “Like, where you have trouble getting to sleep or you can’t stop waking up.” You shrug, and he frowns. “Okay, well…” You sit up and he notes you twist in your seat to lay more on your side, facing him and watching him drive. You’re not staring at his profile view (you wouldn’t mind) but it’s still more intimate. And there you have your coffee. You squeeze it into your chest, hugging it almost and untangling your arm from your seatbelt to take a drink. 

Hader curses under his breath. “Well you’re fuckin’–” he scoffs and grabs your coffee from you, settles it in the cupholder, “–drinking _coffee_ all day.” 

You’re sat up as soon as you realize the loss of heat in your hands. Your drink’s right there, _at ease_ , but instead of snatching it you bat your lashes at him and he clenches his jaw. 

You whine, “I literally don’t get sleep anyhow.” 

“ _That’s concerning–_ but when you’re not affected your body’s still taking in caffeine…Who knows how often you _might_ be able to sleep when the insomnia’s worn off but you’re hyper cause of coffee…” 

His attention is entirely on the road. Makes it easy for you to casually grab your drink and take a sip. 

“No!” He shouts. “Hey, _gimme–”_ He reaches over you and you ball up as best as you can, pressed in the corner. Just for the sake of not crashing, you give it up with a huff and he slides it in the cup-holder built into his door. “No more caffeine for you, alright?”

You furrow your brows. What kind of teacher is so…invested. What kind of teacher has you _listening_ to their advice? 

_This kind_ , you suppose, begrudging with your arms crossed as you pout. 

“Probably keeps you up all night. Makes you late. Late- _er_ with a _ridiculous_ –” he groans as he turns a corner, “ _–forty-minute walk_.” 

You cackle. “You _bought_ it for me!” 

“W-well–!” He tries. “It was already made. I repaid you.” 

“Okay but am I just not supposed to drink it?”

He rolls his eyes. “Put it in the fridge, then. Heat it up in the morning so it actually has time to ware off. It’ll be fine.” 

You scoff “Wow,” ‘offended.’ “You _really_ think I’m the leftover type.”

He bumps his forehead on the wheel as you come to a light. “Oh my God,” he groans.

“Kidding,” you whine. He shakes his head and _ignores you_ , keeping his eyes on the road despite your pouty expression drilling into his soul. You start laughing, finding it adorable how hard he attempts to keep his whole body stable.

But as he turns into your complex you sit up and look for a place he can drop you off. You pinch your nose as you collect your bag and your coffee

“This is it?” He asks. He knows it is, he’s familiar with the area. Just doesn’t want to seem pretentious. He dips his head to look up at the building.

“Yup…” You sigh and he parks.

You hop out, shouting “Thanks, Hader.” You would make the ‘goodbye’ more heartfelt but you’ve forgotten just how cold the cold is from behind in his car. So you’re holding onto the door and ready to shut it when he goes—

“ _Wait._ ” 

You lean and look at him.

“Make some soup. Or something. Like – take care of yourself. It’s cold, you don’t get any sleep…” he pauses, so disturbed by that. “That’s like a recipe for getting the flu.” 

You soften at his sentiment. He’s not wrong. 

He runs his tongue over his lips (chapped by the wind) and squints forward. “And I _really_ don’t think you can afford any more tardies or absences.” Gotta keep it professional…

You chuckle. “Right, right…Goodnight Hader.” You smile at him and give a curt nod. 

He nods back (running his hand through his hair as he does. You’re stuck watching it, blinking hard) and raps the steering wheel with his fingers. He gives a small wave (tiny and hovering just above his lap. He wiggles his fingers individually), suppresses a smile any wider than a flat-lipped one as he chokes “Night,” and you close the door. 

He watches to make sure you get inside the building, then drives away. 


	3. NyQuil & Vodka

There’s a tickle in the back of your throat. Two tickles: one of a worse kind, one of a giddy kind. One has you rubbing your neck raw in denial and desperation, the other has you up and out of one class entirely too early so you can be early to another – _Mr. Hader’s_ fun little class. 

You squeeze your eyes shut while outside the door, back against the wall, energy and patience withering. Yawning makes you aware of the ache in your throat. You curse with a strained chuckle. 

Students start to leave and you waltz in a smirk on your lip and kick in your step.

“Well, well, _well._ Look who it is.” 

You give a bow. He’s bent over his desk, neck craned to look at you and smiling. You wave him off and let him back to it (surveying notes and whatnot).

Bother him, why won’t you? Any other day you might as well. But with energy lost, you yawn and hold your backpack straps, finding your spot and stretching your legs out. You keep your head dipped and bag squeezed between you and the chair. You are entirely _not_ into it today, but hey, _you’re not late_! Hader furrows his brows and mouths _‘You alright?’_ before he’s approached by a student.

You’re too tired to offer anything but a crooked thumbs up. Your head is buried in your arms by the time class starts, your breaths soft if not barely there. 

Hader doesn’t bother. He rubs your arm, just a small brush when he passes. And just as fleeting as that interaction, you leave when it’s time, barely in his sight as he’s hoarded by your classmates.

Out of sight, out of mind. 

* * *

It may have been only two or so days ago that you first joined Mr. Hader after class, but it feels weird to not do it this time. You look back and watch him taken up by other students and unable to notice you. You huff and slip through the crowd, gone without a trace of yourself. 

Ideally, you could go home and collapse on your bed, warm and cozy without a care in the world and without a single conscious thought. The curtains, slightly parted, would cast you in the crisp sunlight, and you would get up on time and well enough to enjoy a cup of tea or coffee before you go. 

Instead, you collapse onto the grungy little couch of a fraternity house, your hair (if it cares to stretch that much) splayed about you and your knees bent toward the ceiling. With an empty solo cup in hand, said hand brushing the stained wood floors, you look forth, cheek squished on the armrest, to the boy who invited you last minute and the swarm of girls flocking around a littered ping-pong table. 

You sit up, head throbbing and migraine suddenly real. _Get a cup of water before you go and you’ll be on your way,_ you tell yourself. So you do, snatching a cup from the fridge and leaving it as another goal of many in their game of beer pong.

You wave your friend bye despite his protesting (name’s ‘Taron’ something, take a gander) and despite your eyes feeling like they’re about to pop out, you still can’t seem to sleep. Not like there’s any place _to_ sleep, but you hoped by the time you made it to Hader’s door, you’d be exhausted. 

Nope.

You put your forehead against the cold door. It combats your heat only slightly. 

“Knock knock….” you slur sadly, knuckles rapping on the wood before you glide them down to hang limp and lifeless like the rest of your body.

Hader swears it’s just a mumble at first – a flock of passing students who’ve cared to used his door as a lean-weight. But the mumble stops, and another knock comes. You tap your forehead again, groaning but finding the sharper, sudden pain less than the ache brewing at your neck’s nape.

He looks to his work, and when a moment passes he gets up. He swings open the door and yelps, seeing you stumble forward and he barely catches you by your shoulders. A pleasant, albeit unpleasantly presented surprise. He rubs your shoulders and helps your stand, leaning back himself to get a better look at you. But you get your bearings before he can, and slip past him into the room.

You dig your fingers into your hair and groan.

He’s looking into the hallway, surveying. Then there’s the _thump_ of your legs losing their stability, and when he looks you’re by his desk and on the floor. You sit against it and keep your head down, legs stretched out and tingling.

_“Shit,”_ he curses and rushes to you as the door closes.

He tries pulling you up but you resist him, snatching your arms back. _“I’m fine.”_

_Ouch_. He looks past his shoulder, goes to the door, locks it, then pulls down the blinds over the small window. “Are you okay…?” He hesitantly asks as he comes back.

His steps echo through the room and make the floor shiver below you. You groan at the sound, groan at the feeling.

So he walks softer till he’s in front of you and knelt. He props his arm on his knee and snaps his fingers below your face. You respond with a bob of your head, your stubborn neck refusing to do what you want. So he’s gentle with it, whispering “Hey… _what’s wrong?”_ and brushing your chin with two fingers to lift your eyes to his. He observes your eyes (dilated) and frowns while you smile, only able to see him. You giggle once then twice before it turns into a pitiful fit of _something_ between laughter and sobs, and you’re holding your shaking, aching head in your hands. 

“What did you take?” He sounds incredulous but not accusatory or hostile, sad almost. 

“Didn’t take anything.” You raise a hand, ‘raise a glass.’ “Just a few drinks?” Your voice isn’t so much slurred and giddy as it is slurred and raspy, deep and physically pained as you speak. It’s the same as if you were to speak just after deep sleeping, but you both know that’s not an experience you’re very familiar with. 

Hader closes his eyes tight and rests his tongue on his lips. “You-you just _drank_? And that’s it?” 

It’s a question of if he’s surprised it came on so strong, or furious at what could’ve ‘bumped up’ your drink without your knowledge. And he can’t be ‘surprised’ it’s so strong because he doesn’t believe it could be so strong. Not a _few_ drinks at least. You’re pained and even in the most tolerant people’s he’s met, _“a few drinks”_ gets one in a funny buzz. Maybe you’re a sad drunk. Maybe it hurts your insides when you’re drunk. 

He takes a breath and drops his head so he can shake it disapprovingly at the floor.

You nod, the bags under your eyes so sunken that the effect when your head’s down can be frightening. Hader sighs as you nod off again. He smacks his lips and whispers “Okay…” In a tone to soothe you. He looks over his shoulder again, waits a moment, then he stands and helps you, putting his arms under your shoulders. You hold onto his arms and when you feel the top of his desk behind you, you hop up with little consequence ‘scept the pain to your skull for moving too quick. 

Hader fishes for his phone in his pocket then puts it up to his ear. You perk up when you hear the chiming. “What ‘re you doing?” 

You reach for him, prying, and he holds his arm out. You lean into it, groan and whine as you reach for his phone and he’s answering an operators description of his possible call.

He clenches his jaw and explains “I don’t think you’re _just_ drunk.” 

“Ugh!” You press your hands to your eyes and keep reaching. He doesn’t budge. He can simply turn his head one way or another and your reflexes don’t have the capacity to follow. You grab his hand and he slides his phone into the other. It’s an awkward grip but not as awkward (in position, not emotion) as you forcing your fingers to interlock.“ _NyQuil_ — and NyQuil,” you admit. His face falls. “I took NyQuil.”

You’re still stretched forward, and you’re still holding his hand. He scoffs, “How _much?”_ Hardly noticing.

You take your hand away and squish your cheeks with it. “Two - three doses—?! Uck…”

“ _Doses_? Like _bottles_ or–”

“No- _no_. Like, the lil cups!” 

He groans your name and puts his phone to his forehead before slapping it on the desk.

“Well you _said_ —“ You start.

“I didn’t tell you to take two — _three_ doses!”

You cling to his arm and cry “I know I know! No you-you said, take NyQuil and I—“ you groan and press your forehead into his arm.“One dose doesn’t-doesn’t work on me anymore so I took two.”

“You took three? Or you took two?”

“I don’t know!” 

He avoids looking at you, keeping his head thrown back and jaw clenched as he looks to the ceiling with the bot still droning on his phone. 

“So I went—“ You speak over the phone’s speaker. He speaks over you—

“So you walked here, 40 minutes, at 30 degrees and 8 o’clock at night, high on NyQuil.”

He goes in front of you. You almost fall without his support but compensate by leaning back with one hand in his desk.

“What? No.” And then you burst into giggles. “So I went to a party.” Hader’s eyes widen. “And I—“

“Drunk? _And_ you’re drunk. You _just_ took Nyquil, or are you _also_ drunk?”

You nod and smile. 

“You’re high on NyQuil…and you’re drunk,” he repeats. He nods with you seeming to understand, then grabs his phone again. He paces in front of you, one arm crossed to squeeze his other as he searches. You wiggle your nose in the meanwhile, finding that it tickles. 

“Alright, alright. Are you nauseous?” You focus on his hands, seeing him hold a finger up for every item on his list. And you shake your head. “Do you have pain in your upper stomach?” You shake your head. “Itching or loss of appetite?” You squint, but _no_ , and shake your head. It hurts and you close your eyes tight.

“Okay, uhm…” he detaches his voice, makes it so robotic and clear that he’s reading from a script. “Do you have dark urine, ‘clay’-colored stool, or jaundice?”

You grimace at the thought. He looks close, unable to see any particularly powerful or concerning tinge of yellow in your skin or eyes. Then he raised his brows and hurries you to answer.

You pinch your nose and rest your face on your hand. “No,” you say, voice muffled in your palm. 

“Alright…” his hands go to his waist and he taps his foot on the floor as he thinks. He bites his lip before sighing, “Come on, I’m driving you.”

You don’t protest, you just swing your legs against his desk. He gets his stuff in his bag then offers to help you off but you get off his desk just fine if not sloppily. He thinks not to help you at first, but when you stumble in only your first few steps he puts his hand on the small of your back and has his other on your shoulder. He opens the door for you, but keeps close and doesn’t dare to take his hand off your back as he turns off the lights and locks the door.

You pay no mind to the students you pass but he pays all of his attention. He feels, and looks suspicious, coddling you but you don’t mind it.

Getting to the parking lot, he takes your hand to get you from sidewalk to asphalt. But it’s to note that after a moment his grip becomes less gentle and more of a grip for security. You appreciate it, smiling at him (a goob) and his extra caution. He struggles to get his keys out with one hand, and you would take your hand away (not as incompetent as you seem, just wobbly) but see no harm in him holding on.

You look off and let out a small huff when you spot what may be Miss Chastain heading home. You smile, and just then Hader curses _“Shit,”_ and hurries you in. He closes the door and is in his seat by the time you untangle yourself.

The ride is quiet and he’s blasting the heat. 

The music’s on and its soft to not disturb your head but hide his heartbeat. 

You don’t get to unbuckle yourself when you arrive at your building. He hisses at you “Ah ah ah—“ so you wait till he comes around. He opens the door and undoes your buckle immediate to put his hand on your back as he helps you inside.

Can’t help but dart his eyes to every resident he comes across. 

Then the elevator is blowing cold air and with enough room he wonders if he should stand so close to your side. He didn’t budge. You’re far from him as soon as the doors open though, heading straight for your apartment. It’s agony waiting for you to unlock your door, anticipation and caution running through his body and mind. 

You push your door open and hold it for him before your fingers slip off and you trudge yourself to the living room. He steps inside right before it closes. But, unsure of if the door was held open as a “come in!” offer or drunk, second-hand instinct, he stays in the hall, stiff and awkward. 

The second you see that couch, you’re collapsed onto it. You let out a howl as you sink into the cushions and hug a throw pillow. It’s the _thump_ and the accompanied sound that prompts him to take his ass out the hallway. He stops when he sees you. 

His breath hitches and best he can do is look at you, suddenly uncomfortable with the thought of ogling the room. Some things he can’t ignore — the overall theme and aura is not something he would have expected. Not to say it’s good, or bad, but a pleasant surprise. Perhaps one better under other circumstances.

You pry your shoe off with one foot. It hits the ground and you try curling your toes over the second, but you give up and let your legs dangle over the armrest, shoe teetering between on and off (stray laces keeping it hung). 

He chokes on his own breath and forces “Do you need anything?”

You groan and shake your head, movement stiffened by the pillow. You reach to the coffee table where there’s a mug. It’s the one you drank tea out of this afternoon. You figured ‘why not try something natural’ and downed it, only realizing a few minutes in you dipped a bag of green tea into your cup. Then you kept drinking it.

You curl your fingers over the cup and tip it to you. 

Hader’s about to lunge forward and save it, but you feel little weight and drop it back into position. He steps carefully around the coffee table and gently pries your fingers off the rim. Your hand drops and hangs limp against the cushions.

He goes off to make you tea. First he pulls out the current pouch and groans, rolling his neck back and seeing where you went wrong. _Green tea_. In the trash it goes. You have a little machine he _assumes_ (hopes) boils water. There’s already some inside, so he pushes down a small switch, hears a _click_ , then searches the cupboards above the counters. Chamomile (if he remembers correctly, which he does) soothes and calms…that should help you get to sleep if the booze and medicine isn’t doing that already. Then there’s agave, honey, milk even but he opts for just honey. It melts like a dream when he pours boiling water over his spoonful. It’s almost to the top so he’s extra careful, trying to balance being silent with being fast and making sure you stay awake. At least for a little while. 

He sets it in front of you and thinks he might as well sit on the arm-chair. But just when he does, flattening his palms on his thighs, you sit up to take the mug and he loses his courage. He goes back and stands in front of the coffee table, hands held together awkward in front of his crotch as he tries not to focus his attention on you but still feeling he hasn’t gained the right to focus on the room. 

You cup the mug between your cold, chapped hands and hold it in your lap just so you can take in the heat. (Too hot anyways, but the tickle is good on your nose.) 

“Thank you,” you mutter, head down with your hair and its shadow cast over your nose.

You take the tiniest sip and jump at the heat. But you sip again. The scorch is comforting in your throat. You set the mug down and lay on your couch, face buried in the pillows again. 

Hader shakes his hands out and steps closer to the coffee table.

“Uhm do…” he clears his throat to get your attention then nudges your shoulder. “Do you need anything else?”

You shake your head, eyes squinted and sleepy. “Thank you,” you say.

“So should I just?” He points over his shoulder. You don’t nod but you don’t shake your head. You blink. 

You just watch his thighs, unbothered by them being idle, hardly aware that they’re there in fact. He twists this way and that way, thinking he’s under less scrutiny now that you’re nodding off as he fights with ‘to go or not to go.’ 

“You know,” he starts, “I don’t really feel comfortable leaving yet…at-at least. Y’know, since you’re…” he rolls his hand in front of his throat. You squint, unable to gather what he’s thinking. But you shrug it off. 

You squirm in your attempted rest. Reaching for your tea, you barely lean on your elbows and he sees your wrists’ instability as it wobbles. He yelps and takes it from you, hissing now that the heat’s burnt through the sides. “ _Ah_ , up. Sit up, you’ll _choke_ or something.” 

He leans over the table and hands it to you once you sit straight. You roll your eyes and take small sips. 

“You don’t have to do this.” You take another sip. “Are you even allowed to be here?”

His eyes go wide. 

He holds his hand out, fingers tight, straight, in a point. “Hey — _no_. I’m trying to make sure you don’t choke on your own vomit and die. Okay?”

_Your_ eyes go wide.

_Fuck, shit, no no no —_ he pinches his nose and trips over his tongue some more. “No I - okay it’s not - it won’t _happen_ , most likely okay I’m just making sure, alright? You’ll be alright.” 

You suck on your lip and grimace but try to smile at him.

“Just don’t…do this again.” He stands and dusts his pants off. “Ever.”

You nod while looking at him. 

Here begins a battle of who will look away first. Your smile gets sweeter, more natural. His gets less and less so. He’s clenching his jaw and his fists, his eyes trying to twitch away.

“Well?” You gesture the chair. “Are you gonna stand there?”

You eye the seat.

He puts his hands in his coat pocket and shuffles to his seat. He’s so stiff, unable to loosen up and sit like a normal human being. You lay down on your back. You try at your shoe and smile triumphantly when it falls to the floor. Then you have one arm sprawled up on the back of the couch, a hand on your stomach, one foot stretched past the armrest and one foot propped right against it. 

You close your eyes and breath soft. “You can watch Tv or something. If you plan on staying.” You gesture the coffee table where the remote is.

He doesn’t want to because he doesn’t want to be judged by his choice of TV (depending on your options) or make a ruckus. But the sound of silence, he figures, is worse than the droning of the television. Smart-TV of sorts, he sees. He chooses your Netflix and to be safe scrolls through your recents. He puts on a random episode of what he hopes isn’t too loud or menacing, and finds himself deeper into your armchair throughout the night. 

One could argue he dozes off (who wouldn’t). Or maybe he just zoned out. When he comes too you’re asleep. You reached to pull the throw-blanket thrown over the back of the couch on top of you, but didn’t get very far. It reaches from your feet to your knees, bunched up in the middle. 

He stretches as he stands and leans over the coffee table to pull the blanket over the rest of you. Off goes the TV as he hovers in the space between the table and chair. 

And there you are. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, watching you long past a simple drift into a dream. He twists his lips to fight them from curling into a smile, then gets up. Stopping before he leaves, he wonders how often you end up like this, how frequent a drink is a solution for you or even how _rarely_ and what occasionally pushes you. 

“G’night…” He mutters with a soft mention of your name.

And he’s careful when he walks away. He looks over his shoulder and flips the light off. He twists the knob, works on the lock, hesitates with a crick in his lips before he pulls the door shut.

You don’t hear it. 


	4. Checking In (With Miss Chastain)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you get when your student last fell asleep after a night of hard partying and they aren’t spotted the next day? Worried!

“Knock knock!” Goes your dear friend Taron and dear professor Mr. Hader at two separate places, in two marginally different points in time. One is much less enthusiastic. 

You swing your door open in the late afternoon. You wear only pajama bottoms for the cold, and a tank top for the heat in your core. Miss Chastain gives a polite _“Come in!”_ Along with a smile as Hader opens the door, a smile too wide on his face that’s just as faux as hers. 

“Dear God—“ you groan and turn away. 

_“Bill, what do you need?”_ Chastain offers, hands clasped together. 

Taron cradles a gift basket — goodie bag if you will — wrapped around his elbow and swaying. He sings “Guess what I got you!” And in his frat boy attire (less pretentious, more outwardly douchy) he explains away the things he’s got with a strain in his posh voice. 

It was an offhanded comment Chastain made. She saw Hader walking with you the other day, and you tripping into his car last night. She barely heard it, hardly saw it, nothing really to question about it. But she saw his jitters from a mile away, and she couldn’t help but spit _“Oh, are you waiting for her?”_ In a joking tone when he asked if she had seen you. Her words were a knife, and his nerves had been severed. 

_“Listen…”_ Hader tries, keeping his distance, remembering the comment. She knows he’s thinking about it but there’s nothing for her to know, right? It was only a joke. Despite what she thinks, Chastain is curious with accusing eyes as he babbles over himself amidst trying to say what he needs. Is this a good idea? Should it be better left alone? _“Okay uhm…there’s this —“_ he shows her his palm, keeps her interested lips shut _“—there may be a concern involving a female student in a…n unsatisfactory condition alone in her home right now. And in case it’s not an emergency, I would like you to check up on her…with me.”_

Chastain thinks _’So I was right’_ with a smug smile, not knowing what she was ‘right’ about. Hader’s lungs revert to apple cores.

“Chocolate bunnies!” Taron wiggles the one he’s holding. You blink slowly. He sets down two more bunnies of different sizes and you groan into your hands.

Chastain’s jaw goes slack. She can’t quite grasp what she wants to say, what questions she wants to ask. _“And-and you’re…certain? Or almost certain?”_ She blinks hard and gets up, waving her mug around. Her heels’ _clacking_ bounces off the walls. There Hader is in the doorway, here she is a good distance from him, her fingers pressed into and splayed across her desk, legs crossed and chin held up. So far (their voices stretch to each other) and yet…he’s stiffened. 

“Do you really think,” You drone, eyes on their way to rolling back, Taron smiling in front of you, “that this is necessary?”

“Absolutely!” He sets down the bag and sits with you. “Had a bit of fun last night, huh?” You roll your eyes. “And-and, you were feelin’ pretty sick before that, weren’t ya? Today you have to treat yourself!” He’s as pumped as a guy at a football game, throwing his arms out to illustrate the importance. 

He slaps your leg again then squeezes your knee. You suppose you could describe it as ‘lovingly’ 

“Oh,” you roll your neck to him, “like how you told me to ‘treat myself’ last night and I ended up drunk and high on NyQuil on campus when it was 30 something degrees outside?”

He doesn’t know about that one (and doesn’t want to address it) but his basket has heaps of vitamins and such he’s grabbed at the store. He plucks one. “If everything goes right today, you won’t be sick tomorrow…” and trails off as he reads the labels.

Miss Chastain throws her hair back. _“Bill, how exactly do you know? Did this student of yours not email you? Or was there not another student who told you and could go check on her yourself?”_

_“Look—“_ His mouth gets dry. _“I-I know what I know. And I don’t want to intrude or get anybody on my ass”_ (that ‘anybody’ is her) _“or make her uncomfortable so if you wouldn’t mind…?”_

She runs her tongue over her lips. _“How do you know where she lives?”_

He looks at the ceiling and shakes his head. _“I don’t know! Vague conversation? Look, I-I’m worried, okay, she’s my student and I have reason to worry, is that okay?!”_

Taron nudges your leg when your eyes have been closed too long. You pop one eye open, then close it slowly. 

“I hope you don’t expect too much conversation,” you mumble.

Taron shrugs and puckers his lips. “I dunno. All I know is that when you’re sick you have to stay _active!_ ” You groan and pull your blanket up to your nose. 

Chastain takes a long drink. She holds it in her cheeks, lips pursed and eyes sharp and predatory. _“Alright, fine,”_ she says after swallowing and points at Hader as she rounds her desk and hangs her bag on her shoulder. _“But you’re driving me back here, remember?”_

Hader clicks his tongue and sighs _“Yup…”_ holding the door open for her.

Keep friends close, but enemies closer…that applies here, right?

* * *

“Okay just — riddle me this — tell me just how exactly you came to be aware of this?” Miss Chastain sits diagonal, legs crossed and knees leaning into the center console. Professor Hader’s collapsed into himself, shoulders tight and close, a sweaty grip on the wheel as he drives to your apartment. 

He twists the volume knob, ignores her for a moment, sighs when she promptly twists it back to a squeaky whisper underneath everything. 

“What are you accusing me of Jessica?”

_[A note, “Four Simple Words” by Frank Turner plays through the stereo_

“I’m not accusing you of anything!” She squeals. 

He presses his chin to his chest. “Really? Cause you-you’re asking a lot of questions. And that fucking comment from earlier?” 

“Well, Bill! If I’m supposed to be your ‘backup’ because you’re afraid of this being seen as _unprofessional_ or anything out of her best interest, I want to know what I’m getting myself into.” 

Hader scoffs “You’re not getting into anything, and you clearly already think I’m being unprofessional but you decided to be weird and cryptic about it instead of coming to me directly!”

She can’t deny that. She knew what she was suggesting. 

“Literally just—” she purses her lips to hold in a groan and rests her palms on her knee. “Bill, tell me. How you found out — it’s not a hard question! Did another student tell you, did-did she email or even _call you_ —“ 

Hader hit the brakes and Chastain’s yanked forward as the car stops. He’s parked perfectly into a spot right near the front. She hardly noticed they were entering a complex at all. She glares at him and he’s having trouble unbuckling, too frantic to get a good aim on the button. 

“She showed up to my door _drunk_ and on something — so I drove her home. _Happy?”_ He gives a curt nod — _this conversation is done_ — and slams the door shut. Despite the tender situation, he holds the front door for her. She fixes her hair and steps quickly to keep up.

“Wh—“ she goes, pointing back to the receptionist as they walk to the elevators. “Do you already know which apartment she’s in?”

Bill glares and presses the button. “Yes. Because she was _drunk_ and I had to help her to her apartment!” A bit of an overstatement. The drive may have been helpful (got you home a hell of a lot quicker than if you had to stumble down a slick sidewalk) but you were well enough on your own when getting to your floor.

Jessica does a twirl in the hall, taking the place in. Bland but presentable. Hader leans on your door, hand just below the nailed-on numbers. 

“Care to knock?” He suggests with a cheeky ‘smile.’

She rolls her eyes and does. Once, hesitantly, then _two_ , _three_ , and _four_. 

You groan from the kitchen. Taron’s cooped you up at the table, your head under a towel and over a steaming bowl. You throw your head back and get the towel around your neck, your airways still _moist_ and icky from the steam. 

“I’ve got it!” Taron shouts, hops up from your couch (he’s made himself comfy, jacket off and his tighter short-sleeve nicely accentuating his muscles) and skips to the door. 

You sniffle and decide _‘fuck it,’_ balling the towel and throwing it to the table. You swipe a Kleenex under your nose and scoff. It’s made your nose runnier than it ever was before. Your nose wasn’t even bothering you from the start!

Outside, they don’t hear Taron exclaim. The hall is silent and pressures him to stand straight, chin up (confidently, like hers) and shoulders relaxed (not at all suspicious). Impatient, his posture doesn’t last long. He leans on the doorframe, goes back to standing straight, back to leaning — he tugs at his neck. 

Chastain eyes him. “Calm down…” she assures.

She shakes out her hair and says “If she’s not feeling well she’ll take a minute—“ 

And door swings open and she squeaks “Oh!” while Hader _chokes_ , a familiar face (Taron, that jock fellow) in the doorway. His brows and jaw are sharp at first before he softens and smiles sweetly. 

“Miss Chastain?” He questions and shakes her hand with both of his, cupping her knuckles “And Mr. Hader—“ Hader’s more apprehensive but finds his hand in Taron’s either way as Taron holds it tight and gives a good, stiff shake. 

“Well!” Taron puts his hands on his hips and taps his foot. “What are you two doing here?”

Chastain brings her back over her stomach and holds it as a guard. “Oh!” She chuckles and shakes her hair out again. She points over her shoulder. “We, we uhm, just came to check in on—“ 

_“Y/n,”_ Hader snaps. 

“Yes!” Her face is sharp at Hader, but soft when looking at Taron. “We just came to see if she was alright. She didn’t come to any classes and nobody had heard from her but clearly —“ She gestures him and Taron shrugs her ‘praise’ off with a smile, “—you must be taking care of her so we’ll just be on our way.” 

“No, no,” he insists, “come in! It’s freezing out there, you came all this way—“ his arm’s already wrapped around Chastain’s shoulders and pushing her inside “—let me get you some coffee.” 

Part of her goes with, the other part resists. “No, seriously, we’re alright you don’t have to do—“ 

“Lemon tea or pomegranate?”

“Pomegranate?”

Hader stretches to his tiptoes and points down at Jessica’s head. “No seriously we’re fine.” He gives an a-okay sign. He points over his shoulder and holds his breath as Taron’s face falls and he’s clearly on his way to finding another excuse to lure them. 

“Yeah.…” Chastain gently peels his arm off her shoulders.

“So…we should go.” They both step back, sides to the door and feet pointed down the hallway. Taron sighs, _maybe_ ready to give in…then a figure walks past him — _you_ in your tank top and pajama pants, a steaming bowl of soup in your hands as you step carefully. 

You stop just out of Hader’s frame, but you can see them perfectly, especially when Taron hisses and snaps to get your attention. 

“Well look who it is!” He cheers. 

You plead with your eyes to not bring you into this, but his arm’s around your shoulders and pulling you forward despite protest. 

You glue your eyes to the bowl to keep it still. The broth is at the tip-top, the vegetables and such bobbing on the surface. 

Hader’s stuck, teeth dug into his lip and eyes wide. Miss Chastain’s struck with the embarrassment of being caught trying to leave, even though there’s no reason for her to not leave considering her position…

You briefly look into Hader’s eyes then glare at Taron. 

“Look who’s come to see you!” He keeps his hand on your back. You chuckle nervously. 

“Now please, come in!” He insists again and this time…they both give in. Chastain more than Hader, as Hader only really seems to step in so he can take your bowl from you, seeing your discomfort with having to juggle your attention. 

Taron closes the door then follows Chastain deeper into your apartment. 

So there you and Mr. Hader stand, rather close and your hands still not quite willing to give up your bowl. You watch Chastain slip off her jacket and awe at your apartment. Hader clears his throat and you remember his chill hands just under yours.

“S-sorry,” you stutter and let him take it. 

“Oh no d-don’t, don’t be sorry…”

A nervous giggle, then you follow Taron and watch him coax Miss Chastain into getting comfortable You hope he feels the sting of your glare in the depths of his soul. 

Hader puts your bowl on the coffee table, then stands by an armchair. Chastain occupies the other one.

“Look at this, huh!” Taron throws his arms out and keeps them that way, gesturing this momentous gathering.

“Come on, sit down!” He says, sitting on the couch.

You roll your eyes and squeeze past Chastain to take your spot beside Taron as he waves for Hader to do the same.

“No I’m-I’m fine standing.” 

But this charming friend of yours beckons him some more. So Hader sits stiff, just as Chastain. Her knees are tight together, nails digging into them. Hader’s hardly on his seat. And you aren’t quite as awkward but your posture is sharp, your arms around your stomach but ready to reach and strangle your friend. 

“Well!” Taron throws his arm over your shoulder. You close your eyes and take it. Hader sits straighter, eyes latched onto Taron’s clutch and your apparent comfort. “Look at this. Who would’ve thought?”

Taron’s always been so affectionate. It’s never bothered you in one way or another, but in this moment particularly, you smile. No thought goes into reaching and grasping his fingers while your other hand wraps around your middle. No thought in how your smile and his wrap-around stirs Hader’s curiosities along with the strange bug in his stomach. 

“Ohhh!” Miss Chastain mewls. “Wouldn’t have pegged you two for a couple, would you Bill? Are you two…dating?” She smirks and her eyes jump as her finger points between you. 

Hader’s eyes go wide because honest to God, he never would have either. 

It’s a curious pairing. 

Your responses are delayed, too conflicted with the image. But ultimately, there’s nothing there and nothing has been there. Taron though, despite his ‘jump’ when he realizes her words, keeps his arm around you. You take your hand from his that dangles over your shoulder to clasp your hands together as you shake your head frantically. “Oh! No-no-no we–” you point between you two, he finishes–

“We’re not dating!” But he laughs a genuine laugh, unlike your uncomfortable giggling. Again, what a curious pairing. He’s entertained at the thought.

Regardless of your status, there’s the question of just how exactly you two got to be so close. Hader can hardly believe your refusal because that lingering question remains. He can’t see you two crossing paths for anything more than a project in Miss Chastain’s class. He can’t imagine you two staying stuck for anything outside of romantic interest…

Suffice to say Taron’s the type of student he keeps his eye on.

“Just friends,” Taron repeats, arm still around you, his palm forward to stop them from questioning. “Right?” He asks, hugging you tighter. You chuckle and nod. 

“Nothing at all.” 

Taron leans back even, sinking you two into the couch. He puts his ankle on his knee and addresses Miss Chastain. “So, what else are you do doing here, by the way? Just checking in?”

“Yeah, Bill and I are just checking in.” 

Hader eyes her. He has a mighty hard time reciprocating Taron’s eye contact.

“Well again, that-that’s just wonderful,” he sounds amused but almost condescending. You know he’s not really, the tone just comes with quaffed hair and a varsity jacket. 

At last, he takes his arm off as he leans forward to grab his drink from the coffee table. You grab your soup while you can and scoot some ways away, pulling your legs to the couch and setting your feet by his thigh. One bundle of blankets on standby supports your back, and Taron in his endless need to bring comfort pulls one of your legs onto his lap. He holds your calf, truly thinking nothing of it. 

Hader tries to not ogle, tries to focus on literally anything else. You hum, watching him over the rim of your bowl as you lift it to your lips.

Chastain, despite the stale conversation, looks interested as ever. 

“Yeah you know we just–” she shakes some hair out of her face “–heard some troubling news, wanted to come and check on you.” 

“Ah.” Taron waves her off, bashful. “We’re fine. A bit of a bumpy night,” he nudges you, “but smooth sailing.” 

“You know, while we’re here–” You and Hader give in and make knowing eye contact as the conversation shifts from being (vaguely) about you and Taron to Taron’s work in Chastain’s class. 

You’re a third and fourth-wheel. She’s more interested and engaged than you could ever be, and Taron’s taking it. With some soup in you and something hot in your system to soothe your throat, you get the playful courage to prod at him with your foot on his lap. He does a good job of ignoring it, patting and rubbing your calves, and totally oblivious to you pouting at him and raising your empty mug to him. She is too. 

You need a refill, you try to mouth. He just _can’t_ see you…

“You know what–” Hader’s voice should’ve cut through the conversation. It certainly snips the air but they don’t mind it – they continue on after it. Hader’s out of his seat and reaching over Taron who simply looks past his frame. “I got it…” he mumbles and reaches for the mug. You refuse to give it up only because you’re not so quick to let him take care of you _again_. But “Let me,” he says softly, eyes wide – reassuring, insisting. So you let him. He carefully takes the mug from you and hurries into your kitchen. 

He’s very intent on making you tea. 

Focus 100% on anything but those two. 

It’s like he’s in a different scene, a different scenario altogether. The discomfort’s melted off his shoulders and he’s following last night’s routine (when he again, made you tea) like nothing’s bothering him. 

Your floor creaks under the twist of your sock as you walk up behind him, impressed with his casual demeanor but finding him mysterious amidst it all.

“Oh,” he says, looking over his shoulder, “Hey.” 

“Hi…” you click your tongue. “Anyways, this is weird – _you’re in my home._ ” But you chuckle. Not that same crooked chuckle with a short breath and flush on your cheeks. A real chuckle.

“Well I’ve kinda been here…” He eyes you as you lean on the counter next to him “Before…” And he huffs with a grin. He furrows his brows and focuses on pouring the boiling water in your cup, then stirring the honey to a gooey ooze. Meanwhile, you hop onto the counter and watch him. You think he’s really focused on getting every last molecule to dissolve but really he’s trying not awe at you.

“Oh?” You hum intrigued. 

Hader freezes, that repetitive scrape of the spoon in your mug stopping with one final _clang_ as he lets go of the spoon and looks at you; he’s almost terrified. _“Oh my God,_ you don’t remember.” 

“No, I do,” you say and he closes his eyes and sighs in relief. “Yeah, last night was…something.” You shift on the counter, slightly closer. You tuck your hair behind your ear and Hader shakes himself out of his trance and goes back to stirring. 

“Okay good. I just thought, y’ know…” he rolls his hand to hurry himself along. 

No, you _don’t_ quite know. But it doesn’t matter.

You chuckle“Well, you bringing me here also was kind of an _urgent_ situation.” The rasp in your throat is either part of your attitude or your cold. Pairing it with a roll of your eyes doesn’t help his insecurities. Are you mocking his interpretation of the severity or agreeing?

Hader points over his shoulder into the room where Miss Chastain gives a cackle and Taron amps up his own sweet tune. As he does he leans into the corner of two counters, his elbow against the slick top and legs awkward. “Do-do you want me to leave? Cause I can like, leave.” He slides over your fresh cup of tea as he talks. The only reason why you don’t respond is that you’re trying to cool it down so you can take a drink, but the silence (to him) is telling. He puts his face in his hands, groans, and goes “Oh God, this was incredibly inappropriate, wasn’t it?”

You choke on your drink and bump your fist to your chest. “No–ehm,” you take another cautious sip to clear out the thick bubbles in your throat. “No. It wasn’t–well I mean, _I_ wouldn’t say it was but I get what you’re worried about. So no, you uhm…don't have to leave.” You bite your lip and keep your head down. “Not unless you want to. If you have stuff to grade and whatnot…” 

“Okay,” he sighs, “Cool…cool cool. No, nothing tonight at least.” 

“I mean yeah, you can stay! If you want but like, not if you don’t _want_ to, regardless of what you ‘have’ to do.” You sniffle and nod your head to the living room. “I also just think Taron’s really invested right now, so?” You tear your eyes away from Hader and suddenly find the pattern on your kitchen floor incredibly interesting. “Also it’s kinda fun to hear Miss Chastain call you–” and you mock _“–Bill.”_

His face scrunches up. “Not _that_ weird.”

“Eh. Kinda weird.” You smile and take a drink.

He gets the fun in it but – “Don’t you have some teachers who have you call them by their first names?”

“Well, yea but that’s when we start on a first name basis. I’m sorry but–” You sputter and gesture him “–I can’t look at your face and immediately see _Bill_. _Bill Hader_ I mean,” you roll your eyes, giggling, “that’s weird! Cool, but weird.” 

He scoffs. “Is ‘Jessica’ weird?”

“Nope.” His face falls, defeated once again. “She _looks_ like a Jessica! From the first moment you meet her!”

“Oh so I don’t look like a Bill?” The way he smiles as he points to himself is so…wonderful. 

“I mean, eventually, but you–you know what? I’ll never be able to accurately explain. It’s just a thing!” 

You hiss at your drink’s heat. Expecting him to say something more, you look at him and smile. When you do, you see his lips are pursed, his eyes wide and cheeks a bit high as they fight his instinct to smile at the way you’re looking at him.

Once you look away he’s free to decompress, resting his elbow on the counter and holding his chin up. 

“Anyways,” you whisper after a quick sniffle. 

That has him thinking. He stands straight and crosses his arms tight. “So…Taron, huh?”

You tilt your head, wondering where he’s going with this. He tries to ease any tension with a gentle chuckle. He tries looking into your eyes too so his jumpy focus doesn’t stick out so much, but he can’t even do that. So he holds his hand over his mouth and takes a moment to breathe instead. Wouldn’t say small talk is his forte…He finds his sights on everything else but you.

“Weird kid,” he chuckles. 

“Yup…” you take a sip.

“Never really…figured you two would be friends.” You raise a brow at him. His eyes go wide – he tries to save himself. “N-not to say like, you’re from two different _worlds_ or like, one is more out of the other’s league than the other but I mean…yeah.” 

You chuckle. His panic goes away like _that_. “I never thought so either. Still can’t figure out how that came about.” You huff. Hader goes to speak but – “I think we met at a party.” You smile at your cup thinking about. “Think he was hosting it if I’m right.” 

“Here? Like…on campus?” Hader points to the floor. 

“Uhm no, actually.” You scratch behind your ear. “Sophomore year.” His eyes go wide. “ _Yeah_. Known him for a looong time. We kind of made a pact to come to the same school. We weren’t all that serious though. But we coincidentally set our sights on this place.” You pat your counter lovingly. “And we both got in, thankfully.” 

“Thankfully…” he whispers.

To think he can compete with a childhood friend..

“Geesh…just, you know…He’s a jock.” 

“And I’m a nerd?” You offer. “Geek? Weirdo, outcast, misfit?” you’re laughing about it but Hader starts freaking the hell out.

“ _No!_ No I’m not like– _again_ , I’m not trying to insult you–” 

“Don’t worry! I didn’t take it like that. I wore those titles like a _crown_ in school.”

“Wait so you _weren’t_ the popular kid?” You shake your head. He gives a small gasp, mouths ‘Ohh..’ behind his palm then scratches his chin where stubble’s grown over the course of a few days. 

His view of you has always been the troublemaking type. Take a charming class clown, add some feistiness and intelligence — that’s you! He figured with all the balls you got to interrupt and bicker with him in the middle of class that you were the type who got out of trouble easily in your past academic career. Ergo, _popular_. But ‘outcast’…now _that_ title isn’t gifted as much leniency, is it?

“What were you?” You ask before taking your last gulp of tea. You pout, holding the cup up and knocking the last few drops onto your tongue. Before you can set it back into your lap, Hader pushes himself up from the counter and curls his fingers, beckoning for you to hand it over. 

So you do and he’s back to planting his feet in front of your water-machine and getting everything ready so you can have another drink. You watch him just as you did before.

“Well,” he starts with a long sigh. “My grades sucked. Had long hair – thought I looked cool but,” he huffs, “really just looked like Charles Manson.” You smile trying to imagine it. The water’s done faster this time since the machine was so hot only moments ago. He pours, adds another teabag, adds more honey, hands it to you with a towel wrapped around the base of the cup so it doesn’t burn you. He rolls his eyes at the ceiling and sighs. “Everyone thought I was on drugs for the entire four years.” 

“Huh…” You press your tongue to your cheek. “And you weren’t?” You suddenly jeer, reaching and poking his arm.

He rolls his eyes and chuckles. “Yeah no, it was…” He grimaces. “It was something.” 

“That’s nice to know,” you tease and hop off the counter. You wiggle your brows at Hader then leave the kitchen. 

His knuckles rap against the countertop. Everything’s where it’s supposed to be…he follows you and watches you maneuver past your chair and coffee-table so you can get to Taron, but your spots taken! You’ve been replaced. Taron’s arm’s over the back of the couch, his ankle’s still on his knee and he clutches his calf amidst an intense talk with Miss Chastain. He’s giving her all the attention in the world, and he’s serious.

You eye Hader, wondering if he’s seeing this too. You sit separate in the armchairs and act as back-ups for the two.

When their conversation gets strange, almost startling (barely on the brink of school-related, teetering on inappropriate and you two thought _you_ had something to worry about), you give each other a peak. Gee, you wonder who her favorite student is. 

Maybe the kid boasting his drinking efforts and _other_ escapades.

Miss Chastain looks at Mr. Hader at one point. He’s sunk into his seat with his legs stretched out and hand over his mouth. She can see the bags under his eyes, even in your apartment’s charming (but waning) low light. The clock says they’ve been there for an hour, and she gasps, clutching her bag.

“Oh! We should really get going?” Her voice softens near the end and she ends up mouthing it to Hader. He nods. It’s lazy.

“Oh, so soon?” Taron whines. 

One thing you’ve never questioned about him is his ability to make women swoon. Fits the ‘bad boy’ type on the outside, and the ‘soft maybe-British-boy’ type on the inside.

Him and Miss CHastain stand together. He gives her his sweetest smile and she waves him off with some banter related to whatever they were just talking about.

You and Hader only stand when she’s by the door. Hader stretches a bit then stays off to the side, swaying by you and coming to terms with leaving. But honestly he’s glad to considering the time. Only considering the time…

You watch him watching her just as Taron skips over, insisting: 

“Oh alright then. I’ll walk you to your car,” like the gentleman he is. 

Hader gives Taron a flat-lipped smile as he waves them out the door. You join Taron in the doorway, keeping your apartment barely open and watching as Taron whisks Miss Chastain down the hall. Hader, under the impression that he’s at least some of their focus, raises a hand ready to tell them _‘I’ll be down in a minute!’_ But they hardly notice he’s not walking beside him. So he sighs and looking forward, you’re there, smiling at him with your arms crossed.

“Uhh…anyways–” He sniffs the stale hallway air and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Sorry about this, this was–” 

“No, I liked it.” You lean forward to watch the two step onto the elevator. 

Hader’s baffled, breathless even. ‘ _No, I liked it,’_ echoes in his ears. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes some thoughts out of his head. “Yeah just – surprise visitors aren’t all that fun to begin with and I’m like…” he fiddles with his hands, “your _professor_ so that was…probably not fun.” 

You lower your chin and look at him behind your brows. “I said, _it’s fine._ It was _fun_ , so don’t beat yourself up.” You huff and keep looking down the hallway. “My damn fault. Gave you the burden of taking care of me last night then went awol.” You roll your eyes at yourself. 

“Yeah, about that–” He takes a breath and holds a finger up “–can you _not_ do that? I mean, not to say it’ll ever happen again but if it does and there’s probable cause for me to wor–” _Nope_ , he runs his tongue over his lips and cuts himself off. “Like, if there’s an actual threat of anything like not waking up _after you take three doses of NyQuil after downing a bottle of vodka–!”_ You groan and bounce a little, pouting. He still sounds bewildered by the idea but at least he laughs thinking back to it. It’s passed, you’re fine, not that big of a deal but it certainly was at the time. “Can you just email me next time?”

You pout at him, but shrug. “Fine. Or I could just give you my number?”

He squints and shakes his head softly. “Uhhh…you – uh, I-I, may…huh?” 

You laugh at him. An actual, genuine laugh – not just a puny chuckle. You hold out your hand and eye his pocket, waiting. He doesn’t budge until your neighbor’s door squeaks open. Then he’s struggling to get his phone out of its tight fit and he, with a look that reads _‘I’m trusting you not to do anything’_ (like take his phone and close the door), focuses on your face. You raise your brows a bit as you type your number into his phone. He knew that was your intention but when he sees you actually do it he gets on his tip-toes and tries to say “Wait – _actually_ ,” followed by all of his concerns, but he can’t bring himself to do it. You smile and slap the phone back in his hand. 

You tilt your head and click your tongue. “ _You know_ , in case there’s probable cause _you_ have to wake me up…don’t really see how good an _email_ would assure you I’m fine if I’m too passed out to _write_ an email.”

He can’t stop staring at his phone, seeing that indeed there’s your contact. Right there. But yeah, he supposes suggesting you send him an email was a bit dumb…

You get his attention with the squeak of your closing door and your socked feet pattering on the hallway floor.

He furrows his brows. “What are you doing?”

You gesture for him to get moving. “Walking you out.” 

He purses his lips. “Oh…No…No no you can’t do that it’s freezing out there. Don’t get sick, and stay inside.” He points you back inside. You grunt and roll your eyes. “I’m serious, Y/n, I can take myself outside. Stay warm.” After a pause, he whispers “ _For once.”_

You catch him. You smile.

“Whatever you say!” You tease, opening the door behind you and giving a small wave. 

He hums to himself, and waves just as gently. The elevator doors open and there he sees Taron jogging his way over. Taron points over his shoulder, says, “Miss Chastain’s waiting for you downstairs.”

“Yeah I uh–” Hader nods his head in that direction. “Should go now.” He smiles at you. 

“Please do come again!” Taron cheers, and slips past you. He wraps an arm fully around your shoulders, standing so proud in your doorway as though he owns the place (considering the frequency of his visits and his contribution to your interior design, you could say he’s right to think so). You roll your eyes, mutter ‘sorry’ to Hader, and give a little wave.

“Bye, _Bill,”_ you giggle.

Then Taron closes the door between you.

Hader furrows his brows and looks at his phone. 

You added a _clock_ emoji (⏰) by your name…cause you’re always fucking late.


	5. Status Quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a day in Hader’s class and some ‘fun’ news too!

Hader swallows. 

He swipes and there’s your contact name. No picture. Just your name and that little red clock emoji because you’re always late…he looks up and thinks _“evidently_.” But maybe not. The room’s not full, it’s not empty. Class isn’t technically starting but when you’re on-time you only ever come early; at least ten minutes till.

With his tongue to his cheek, he pads at his screen, barely missing the “call” button. His nails rattle incessantly, _tap tap tapping_ his desk while the present class contributes absolutely nothing to the atmosphere.

The commotion in the hallway is dying but his heartbeat’s accelerating.

He closes his eyes, curses himself…and presses **CALL**.

“Fuuuck,” he murmurs into his palm and scratches at his stubble before resting his hand on his chin and jaw. He swivels his seat around, stopping when his chair faces the door as his foot meets the leg of his desk. He can’t stand the ringing.

It startles you as you trudge through the stiff snow on your way to his class. 

“Hello?” You manage to sing, chest heavy. He’s not certain it’s your voice at first – so much pep in it along with the initial static rumble of your connecting phones. 

“Um h-hi?” He squints, pained at his…lack of charm? He can’t explain his anxieties away by claiming he thinks you forgot you gave him his number. He knows you haven’t – _you_ insisted on it. He’s simply forgotten how common it is for someone to open with a ‘hi’ or ‘hello’ and how equally common it is to pose such greeting as a question. 

“Y/n?” He asks, hushed. He returns a wave to a student who waltzes in giving him one. 

You turn your head and observe campus, from one white-covered tree to another, waiting for him to make up the silence. You smile despite the awkwardness.

“You okay?” You ask.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grimaces, scoffs. “Yeah I’m just uh…” He stands, tugs his pants up, and leans into the side of his desk. With his legs crossed his fingers brush against the wood before flipping through some papers scattered about. “You okay? You’re not here, just checking in to see if anything’s happened.” 

“Ahh, yes…” you wince, guiltily. 

His face falls and he flashes an assuring smile to some students up-front who question.

_“S-something has?_ Something _has_ happened or–”

Flustered, you go cold then scrunch your face up. “Ugh, no! No no I’m–” you palm your face with your gloved hand, groaning at your own mistake. “No I’m fine, sorry I just–never-mind. Yeah, I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s happened. Heh…”

He looks off. “You sure?”

“Yes!” You chirp just as students nearby shuffle their way to class. Embarrassed, you hide your face behind your hand and pick up the speed. You’re careful on the sidewalk which isn’t visibly slick but you know well-enough to not trust the white dust and blue crystals that’ve been tossed onto the snow to melt it overnight. 

“So um,” he blinks, “you coming to class?” He frowns. “You got sick, didn’t you?”

“No! I feel great, actually? Like, weirdly great.” The chill touch of trickling snow certainly helps.

“Oh. Th-that’s good. That’s good! Cause um, got some important stuff to cover today that I think you might be interested in…” 

“Ah, that’s cool!” 

More silence. Typical, typical, silence. Talking over the phone has never been your forte, and Hader will admit it’s not his either. And yet you were both so comfortable with the prospect of calling and answering respectively. 

Hader turns his back to the class. 

“…Anyways–” 

_“I’m sorry,”_ you break after holding your breath.

You skip to pick up the pace, and whimper as you find staying bed-ridden most of yesterday has depleted your stamina as you try to speed up.

Hader blinks. He can feel your regret. “You-you’re sorry..?” His shoulders drop, his face softens. _“Why?”_

You sniffle and _honest to God_ it’s because of the cold (and a runny nose) but pain is all that resonates in his mind. On high alert, he stands straight and tense again. But, seeming too startled in front of the class (conversing, getting settled, waiting for him to talk) he decides to lean back a bit. It doesn’t stop his foot from anxiously tapping. He wraps an arm around his stomach and clutches the side of his shirt. 

“Running late,” you explain, looking at your watch.

Class hasn’t started yet. But you’ve been down this road before. You know this trek.. 

You laugh, and it’s a bitter laugh. Hader furrows his brows, but you really just find your happenings quite _funny_ despite how irritating it may have been this morning. ‘It’ is to say Taron and his protectiveness. “Taron tried forcing me to stay in today.” You sniffle again. “Said it was too early to tell, didn’t want me to head out if my immune system wasn’t in the clear.” 

He knits his brows together “He _what?”_

“I mean I’m-I’m okay, basically.”

But he mutters, “How did he force you…” bewildered, unaware he’s saying it into the phone.

“Tried locking me in my own apartment.”

Hader furrows his brows. “W…. _well can you get out?”_ He scolds.

Looking around, you _seem_ to have gotten too. You chuckle and hiss “ _Yessss_. I am. It didn’t last long. “

He closes his eyes and bites his lip. “How long do you think it’ll take for you to get here?”

You gesture the building, only a little ways away. 

“Well–” and you _yelp_ as a hand slaps your shoulder. Hader holds his breath but it’s broken when you start laughing. He can’t possibly imagine _why_ you’d be laughing – he slowly looks to the door. It’s only Taron who’s startled you, holding a drink in hand and the other hugged to his chest. “Ugh!” You laugh, “you _ass_.” If you weren’t on the phone he’d declare the drink his formal apology for bickering this morning.

Hader closes his eyes and sighs, suddenly in the middle of a situation he feels he doesn’t belong in. 

“Sorry,” you chuckle “–just speaking of the devil.” 

“ _Hmm_. Anyways, how long do you think it’ll take for you to get here?”

As you step inside the main building you kick the snow off your boot and shake your hair out. You pull off your gloves and your hat follows suit. Hader’s deals with rustling in the speaker as you hold your phone between your cheek and shoulder so you can shove the warm bundles into your coat pocket.

Taron starts to skip, patting your back for a moment before hurrying forward. 

“Uhm, actually–” you choke, refraining from running so you can keep your voice stable. You crane your neck to try and see if the class’ door is open. By this time Hader would’ve closed it. 

He hums for you to continue, mutters “Hello?” again, afraid you’ve lost the call. 

He ignores the motion in the corner of his eye (Taron rolling his arm for you to hurry up), and assumes the excited _squeak_ he hears is coming from someone in the room with him and not your side of the call. Not wrong…technically. 

_“Knock knock”_ might as well be a bitter calling forever seared into Hader’s memory. 

Oh, the times he’s cursed _“Jessica!”_ just this morning, her jeers following their Friday visit to your apartment and her ever-inappropriate curiosity persisting. He pinches his nose and sighs, ready to tease about her fascination with her dearest student, _Taron_. 

Anticipating that this time he’ll finalize how many jabs she’s given him today, he looks to the door – _you_ bundled appropriate for the cold, a pair of flushed cheeks beside a bright nose, smirking as you await an answer: _to come in, or not to come in._ That (in line with today’s lesson) is your question. 

You miss Hader’s smile, his eyes bright and expression giddier than you would’ve seen on him in all your days together because at once, at last, there you are; his student present in his class.

But you and Taron had to peak inside and give a wave to your classmates, so you don’t get to experience that.

“Heeey!” Hader jumps, hearing his voice through his phone. He hangs up the call, smiles clearly embarrassed, then you meet half-way. Taron squeezes your shoulder and heads to his seat “You’re like…here.” Hader chuckles, disbelieving and gesturing your present body.

“I’m here!” You cheer for yourself, then deflate and look up at the clock. _Late_.

“Eh.” Hader waves the clock away and puts his hands on his hips. “Psh it’s uh…wrong?”

You look up and know for a fact that it’s not wrong but he squints and smiles softly. You hold your gloves and hat in front of your stomach, and nod knowingly as you walk backward to your seat. 

“Ahhh…lucky me then, huh?”

He takes a breath, ‘surprised,’ relieved. “Tell me about it.”

You give a faint salute before you sit and put your bag at your feet. Hader follows you, disregarding the students ready to listen. “I mean,” he scoffs and nods at the clock, “Time’s just a construct, isn’t it?” He jokes. “Least you’re not absent–”

You scrunch your face up and smile weakly, supposing he’s right. But next time, you’ll be able to check both achievements off the list. You’re certain. Through flu and cold, NyQuil _or_ vodka induced hangover…you’ll play it straight. You’ve made your choice, you’re determined to stick to it. Simultaneously, you laugh to yourself wondering just how long you can stick to it, suspecting more inconvenience to come.

“Oooh, I’ll keep it up,” you whisper. Hader hums for you to repeat yourself, barely holding onto your words. And you wink. Or do you? As is common with a wink, it comes then goes just as fast, and maybe it was Hader that blinked and that is the only reason why he doesn’t get his (to say loosely) ‘hopes’ up. His doubt is visible, and to avoid his gaze and get on with class, you wave him away and give a cheesy thumbs-up.

He takes a breath, smiling soft, hand still on your desk as he looks up to the rest of the class.

“Alright, _listen up–!”_

* * *

Professor Hader swears you’re only poking him now that you know you can. He can’t count the times you’ve interrupted (albeit jokingly, respectfully), the times you’ve questioned the topic further, all the little looks you give back to Taron and the chuckles you suppress whenever he says something ‘funny.’

But it’s not funny. It’s just _him_ that, for whatever reason, throws you into a fit of smiles and giggles. 

Class is coming to its end and he suddenly stops. 

His lips curl in and he bites them, keeps himself quiet as he thinks for a moment. 

And suddenly interest has peaked. 

“It’s about time you guys—” He stops and taps his knuckles on the desk and stares at the contents atop it. He chuckles and holds his tongue in his cheek, then plucks a piece of paper and waves it around. He smiles at the class and wiggles his brows “Get started on your student films.”

Then the noise picks up – _oohs, ahhs,_ groans even begrudgingly excited.

You beam and sit straight, leaned forward with your elbows nearing the edge of the desk.

Hader’s prompted to hand his paper to you, unable to ignore your grabby hands. You whisk it out of his grip and press it flat on the surface as you read, lip pulled between your teeth and eyes jumping to every detail you can find about the project. 

Behind you is Taron, his finger curled over the curved desk that spans his half of the room. He gawks at you, lips perked and hair bouncing as he nods rapidly. You chuckle and look at Hader, quieting yourself by giggling into your hand. 

“Don’t get too excited,” he warns, poking his desk. “This isn’t film _production_. We’re _studies_ \- it’s not about the equipment and the sets and all that. We’re about the theories and whatnot, the techniques, the _screenwriting_ …so I don’t expect everyone to go ‘all-out’ but I do expect you to show what you’ve learned and what you will continue to learn. That clear?”

Some students give a cheer. Taron gives a drumroll, his tongue poking out and eyes trained on you. You nod back at him, in rhythm with his drumming. 

Hader hums in his mouth, watching.

After things settle, he takes a breath and gets back to it. “Won’t give out all the details now, but know it’s coming. I’ve put you all into groups to you can get acquainted _now_ so it won’t be absolute _hell_ when you start working together. Everybody get that?”

You cup your hands around your lips and shout “Get on with it!” playfully – Taron assists with a _“Woo!”_

Another day and Hader would groan at you. 

This time, he smiles.

“Alright, alright,” and reads the groups off. Halfway through he looks up and rests his tongue on his lip for a moment. This is nerve-wracking — waiting for your name to be called. 

“Last group we’ve got is Y/n, Pete,” the P _pops_ , “Timothée, Saoirse, and Taron.” Hader folds the paper with one hand, watching the class, most now familiarized with the faces of their teammates. He smiles flatly and watches everyone ignore his note about ‘not getting too excited.’ But he knows you can’t help it. 

Taron’s shaking his fists in the air, a smile so tight you can see most of his teeth. You shake a fist back, truly triumphant, knowing in your heart that Hader purposely added him to your group. 

You look back at Hader and give a thumbs up. Bashful, he waves your praise off. 

Got a pretty good group going for ya…Davidson, Chalamet, Ronan, and of course – Egerton. 

You turn around, bite your lip, look to your right, then left. Pete spots you and despite his melancholy way of living, you see traces of a smile growing. He gives a salute, fingers to his forehead then swept away. You bob your head, pouting impressed. 

“Okay, _hey!”_ Hader calls. The group settles as hinted. Hader’s by his desk still, leaned against it, lips pursed and ready to speak but eyes to the ceiling as he thinks. “So…that’s the end of class if you want to start packing up?” People do, slower than usual, cautious in case he catches you off-guard with more news. “I’ll send some more information out but we won’t really be getting into it for a while. Just know it’s coming so get to know each other, keep track. Alright?”

“Alright,” says the class, tones melting into a monotonous one.

Waiting for the class to disperse, you get a nod from Pete, a quick look from Timothée, and a shy wave from Saoirse. Then Taron comes up, bag strap in hand and hair ruffled from gripping it in his excitement. His jaw’s open and he lets out a sort of squeak as he hugs you tight. He pats your back, rocks your shoulder, then waves you goodbye as he hurries out of class. He combs his hair out mid-jog. 

Hader’s sat at his desk, shuffling papers around, tapping them into a neat square, wondering just how exactly he has _so much shit on his desk at the end of every day_ , wondering if he can have _one_ day without things being this way. 

You clear your throat and poke the place under his eyes. 

He looks up, surprised, confused, the giddy smile you missed at the start of class back and prouder than ever.

“Hey – hi, how are you…?”

You nod at the front of his desk. “Uh…anybody sitting here?”

He blinks. “Uhm no, they’re not.” You smile and take your bag off. You tap the ground, get a feel for it, and are content preparing to sit with your back against the desk. 

“You know what?” He gets up and wipes his hands together. “Gonna get you an actual chair,” he grumbles from the corner of his lips. 

“Oh no you don’t have to– _and you’re gone,”_ you sigh. 

You twist your lips and look at the room. Emptied almost. It’s getting there. 

Hader waves for students to hurry out before slipping back in with a chair from another room. He presents it to you, smiling smug, then sets it down, pats the back of it, and sits in his own. 

You accept his offering and hold your cheeks as you watch him work.

You watch the students leave until they all do.

“Need some help?” You hold your hand to him.

He taps his pen once, twice, smiles…and hands some papers to you.


	6. Drunk Dialed *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t love me,” because I’m a slut for sadness + Just hit me with anything angsty" ~ anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In-between chapters are drabbles recommended through my Tumblr blog. They are not wholly necessary in order to follow the story but might be referenced briefly in 'official' chapters. These aren't not-canon, but because they don't have a strong effect on the main storyline they can be treated as such.
> 
> Drabbles are written with an asterisk --> *

_“It’s to get to know each other!”_ Taron said, _“It’ll be fun!”_ He said. 

It was fun until the 90 minute mark; Pete passed out on the couch, Saoirse proved herself a giggly drunk curled into a ball on the floor, and Timothée a quiet one near-catatonic. Taron, as you’re familiar, becomes filled with romance and regret – he performs a soliloquy with his head against the window and cheek on the frost. 

You’re in Timothée’s boat are tipping into Taron’s. 

_Your_ age and unloved, _unloving_ , so used to walking a single amongst duos. Even now you look – Pete and Saoirse, Timothée and Taron – and find yourself an oddball. Odd one out, single, alone, _again_.

You (together) concluded you would be the screenwriter, Pete and Taron co-directors, Saoirse and Timothée the leader actors – again, _you’re single, alone, the odd one out._

So in the silence you type _(click click click)_ slowly, but surely. 

Bill (for he is, of course, Bill outside of the classroom) doesn’t know why he’s up or in his kitchen. He isn’t hungry, he has no errands to run, no instinct _told_ him to be up and about. But he’s leaning on his kitchen counter.

He’s there to receive your text, and that’s all that matters. 

**Y/N** ⏰ **:** _im unloveable lol_

He reads and blinks. Once, twice, a third time _really_ hard to see if he’s dreaming.

His jaw goes slack, and after a moment, you call. 

You slouch forward with your arm under your stomach. You hold your phone screen-up, ready to speak lowly into the mic too far away from your mouth. The _ringing_ jolts Pete awake, but he lays still, jaw dropped and buggy eyes on your phone. 

You dip your head and nuzzle your nose into your arm.

Pete catches your attention, raising his brows a bit, questioning but not having the words to question. 

You blink back at him, then follow his eyes to your phone. 

Bill answers the call. First there’s no sound, nothing. “….Hello?” He asks, voice sharp on your side and filling the space of your dimly lit apartment. (At another time it would be cozy but now it’s only sad.) You groan and lift the phone to your lips. He calls your name and for a second, you’re happy. 

“Hiii–” 

_“Hiiiii,”_ Pete echoes with his raspy voice. You slap at him and he snickers. His laugh grows wheezy, then silent. He hugs himself and rests his neck on the back of the couch, trying his shot a dream. 

Hader blinks. “You…okay? Something wrong?”

His kitchen is warm in contrast to your living room – cool. It’s dim for him too but his lights give everything a yellow tint, only highlighting his face and contributing to the darkness of everything else (his cabinets, his counters, his thin black sweater and black pajama pants). 

You hiccup mid-laugh. “Hi, yeah,” a sniffle, “I’m alone…?”

Pete chokes and slaps your arm. “You’re not alone ‘m right ‘ere!’ He cackles and holds his chest. You whine and push on his cheek, force him to look the other way at Timothée. Timothée offers once thing – _peace_. 

Bills leans against the counter and crosses his arms. “You don’t _sound_ alone.” 

“No I’m-I’m _naht_ –” you palm your face “–alone _alone_ , im alone alone _alone_.” 

“Mhm…” 

“Like- cripplingly lonely-alone.” 

“Why…why do you feel that way?”

“Dunno…” You draw circles on Pete’s pant-leg. “Just am.” 

Pete watches you, his lips puckered and eyes bland. When tracing your circles becomes tiresome, he looks at nothing in particular. Maybe your phone, maybe the back of your head. His arm’s there, limp and in the corner where couch and wall meet. He breaks the silence with a groan. You shush him and put your finger to his lips, then he reels back annoyed like an ignored toddler before he puts his forehead on the back of the couch. His hair brushes your shoulder, and you pat his head a few times.

“Like, unloveable?” you chuckle. “That’s _meee_.” Hader bites his lip. “You ever like, _know_ what it’s like to–” you sniffle and keep petting Pete, “like, _be_ an understudy?”

“Like in…acting?”

“Yeah like in acting but no no– like, just _in life._ Like be-being that friend who uhm…” you take a breath. “That friend who’s like a temp for all their other friends?” Hader grimaces. Your voice gets high for a second and he winces even more. “ _Likeeee_ , people only really are friends with you cause you’re a good friend but its mostly cause their other friends are crap but because then they keep hanging with those friends it shows that they’re also crap and they’re not a good friend to you because you have problems and stuff but they don’t care so you as long as you’re there when they need _you_ so you just kinda hold everything in and don’t really do anything with anybody and just kind of feel like a sack of shit all the time–” you inhale deep.

Hader’s quiet. Even if he had something to say he wouldn’t be able to say it. His eyes dart to and from – one corner of the room, another corner of the room, another then another then another – and when they stop they twitch a bit. He inhales to speak– 

You exhale, voice suddenly breaking and whimpering, _“–and y’know you kinda realize that nobody would care or notice if you like, weren’t there and see, y-you’re, you’re unlovable.”_ You end on such a positive note, literally, audibly, proud you’ve finished your story. 

Hader clenches his jaw. 

“Do you need me to pick you up?”

_“Wha’?”_

He nods. “Do you need me to pick you _up, Y/n?”_

“No I’m at my–I’m at my–” you pat Pete’s head, “I’m _home_.” 

He knits his brows together. “Who’s _with_ you, then, Y/n.” 

“P-” you _pop_ , “-ete.”

_“…Pete?”_

“And Saoirse and Timothée and Taron.” 

Course he knows better than thinking what he’s about to say will make everything better. He can tell you’re drunk, you slur when you’re drunk – _didn’t know you were a pitiful drunk_ – and doubt on top of drunkenness is only to be cured with more drinks. 

He says your name like a curse, “You’re not _unlovable_ –” 

“Well _you don’t love me!”_ you cry.

“Well I’m w- _well I mean–”_

“Oh _God!”_ you cry again, surprised at the tears that’ve spilled. You hold the back of your hand to your cheek, as though trying to pick them up. You sniffle and give a manic laugh. It wouldn’t even be plausible, realistic, _appropriate_ for him to ‘love you’ – you’d have winced at the spontaneity and unprofessionalism had he said it back but suddenly you find your guts churning and pain in your chest. 

“Oooh, don’t _crrrryyy,”_ giggles Saoirse. She’s off the floor and sitting on your arm-rest. She wraps her arms around you and rocks back and forth. You grimace, confused. 

“Wait–” Hader grunts, “–I don’t mean I like-I _don’t_ , it’s not like I _hate_ you or anything but–” 

You whimper again, still holding the phone. But your grip is wobbly. 

Pete, like he’s had his eye on the prize this whole time, snatches your phone and when he has it in his hand he sits straight and proper almost, arm on the couch and ghosting behind your shoulders, his feet kicked onto the coffee table. Hader hears the harsh _thud_ of his shoes against the wood and glass. 

“Hi, hello,” Pete groans. His voice is deep and unmistakable. “We can take it from here, buh-bye.” 

_He hangs up the phone._

Hader jumps at the _b_ ** _EEP_** and stares at his screen. He squints. 

Slowly, he looks to the wall across from him. Somewhere in the world (your apartment) you’re sobbing under the impression you’re a worthless piece of nothing and he… _didn’t_ help with that. He winces, numbed by the suddenness, the time, _the content._

While not doing much thinking otherwise, he thinks: 

_Fuck…_


	7. Supply Closet *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Can you actually write something ab hader and y/n getting stuck in a janitors closet lmaoo" ~ anon

There’s a huddle of chairs in the back of the library, a very underrated huddle. Hidden in the shadow of the stairs above, but gifted with the choppy rays of orange light that peeks through the bookcases around it, it’s a place you find Pete, Timothée, _and_ Saoirse often enjoy separately. It’s quiet, quaint, and charming.

You sit there today — Taron, like a schoolmaster, having assigned you to jot ideas down for the film.

So you do, sat normally while Pete’s legs stretch to meet yours, Saoirse has her knees to her chest and notepad balancing on them, and Timothée’s so comfortably curled into a ball you aren’t sure he’s conscious.

You had a lot of ideas last night. They were drunken ideas though, tainted with mysterious misspellings and undecipherable chicken-scratch. You sifted through them this morning, all of you suffering through throbbing headaches and yearning for coffee.

Taron provided accordingly, but once you began pouring them down the hatch, he insisted you start working.

Then in the middle of silence, Pete’s pencil **SNAPS** , lead chucking itself out of the vicinity and wood _splintering_.

 _How the fuck—? You tense._ Saoirse’s tense, Timothée wakes from his half-asleep stupor, and Taron’s dumb-struck.

Pete lifts the pencil and twirls it between his fingers. He frowns, impressed. “Anyone have another one?”

“Wh-how did you—?”

Pete shrugs the need to answer away.

“Um…” You blink – _whatever_ – and step over Pete’s legs. You put your things in your seat. “Never-mind. I’ll go get a pencil sharpener or something.”

You find nothing on the receptionist desk and nothing on any of the tables. You acknowledge a pencil sharpener isn’t exactly the thing they’d want in a library, you suppose, with its rambunctious _buzzing_.

The supply closet’s already opened a crack with a door-stop in place. So you push it open just enough, and slide through, unaware of how the little wooden wedge slips inside with you.

You let the door close and try to assist to keep it from being too loud. You breathe relieved hearing the soft _click_. Once the door’s closed you turn around and curse _“Aah! Fuck!”_ At the sight of a tall body taking up an entire half of the closet — a half hidden when the door’s open. You huff and wheeze, holding your chest and laughing at your profanity. “Sorry! Uhm… _didn’t expect to see anybody there.”_ Still they’re there, head down and contemplating, tempted to look at you, _confused_. They heard that _click,_ and they know more about what it means than you do.

“Did you just–?” They ask – _Professor Hader asks_ , you see as he looks over his shoulder.

He jumps recognizing your face and knocks down the supplies he’s got his hands on. He tries to fix them all, cursing at the way they clang against each other and the shelf itself.

His breath is quick and his lungs tight as he finally stands everything back up. He grabs what he came here for — a pack of blank paper. He holds it to his chest as he steadies his breath, gets over the embarrassment, and turns to you. You’ve got yourselves stuck in a three foot by three foot supply closet with the shelves so thin yet so packed you can see the dust wafting off the items and under the room’s faint disk light. Horrible set up really — you can hardly open the door properly even when there _isn’t_ someone in here.

Quite the claustrophobic place, that’s for sure.

Caught on your own breath you look him up and down.

“Oh? Hi?”

When you see him, he’s sat down most of the time. Sat down, far enough away, or in too much of a hurry for you to really notice his… _structure_. He’s a tall guy, _bulky_ you could say. You just assumed the bulk was his sweaters and his coats, scarves, and gloves but…You blink hard, still disbelieving. _Clearly_ that’s not the case.

Hader’s brows are stuck in their raised position. He relaxes his jaw, lets it hang slack as he tries to say something but can’t help and dart his eyes to the door. He’s 90% certain you’ve _locked yourselves in_ , and 90% certain _you don’t remember the phone call_.

He sighs your name, voice quivering with an attempt to sound glad to see you – sincere.

He’s not _not_ glad but after _last night_ …? He rolls his eyes at the ceiling, finding the universe quite cruel for this irony.

Your dropped jaw turns into a crooked smile. “H..i? Hey? Hi…I just gotta…” you point past him. Hader presses himself back into the shelf and murmurs “Sorry.” Him moving isn’t much help. As you reach and pluck a spare pencil you spot off the shelf, you still have to stay close to him. He holds his breath to keep contact from happening. Then you hurry back into your corner (as best as you can. You groan when you hit your head into the shelf, but ignore the pain). You tap the pencil’s lead, wince at the poke, but seeing it’s sharp enough for Pete’s purposes (hopefully) you show it to him triumphantly — _see, this is what I came here for!_

Hader nods slowly. “Yeah…”

“Anyways I’m gonna…” You jut your thumb to the door. “Go.”

“Okay.”

But the handle doesn’t budge. You push down on it harder, then hold the cool metal as your hand heats up with sweat. “Heh…” you turn to face him. _“Welp-”_

Hader bites his lip and watches you try with all your might to keep your head down, embarrassed at the situation you’ve put yourselves in. He tries to the same but doing that just leaves him staring at you. So he keeps his chin propped up.

He gulps. “Hey, um, do you _remem_ –”

“Oh!” You go.

In a second his stomach drops. The plastic-wrapped paper he holds crinkles as he tightens his grip. So, _you do remember. Well fuck_. “You know it’s really no big deal.” His voice is soft, reassuring. “You were drunk and I get it, y’know? Feeling that way? Listen I’m _sorry_ , about what I said. I really didn’t mean it that way. It was just late and really sudden but I-I get it.” He scrunches his nose.

You blink at him. “What?”

Hader opens his eyes and presses his chin to his chest. “Wh-what do you mean ‘what?’”

You shake your head. “I-I’m not…following?”

He looks at your chest, seeing how your phone’s light colors a square on your top. Hader squints.

He’s slow. “You…called me…?”

You tilt your head forward.

“…Last night…?”

You smile. _“What.”_ And squeeze your phone — the phone you gladly remembered is your quickest ticket out of here because your _friends_ are here!

He blinks, face dull as he’s overcome with the realization that ‘the call’ _wasn’t_ your sudden realization.

_“You don’t remember.”_

“… _No._ What did I _say?”_

Hader laughs nervously. “You know _it doesn’t really matter_ –Hey are you gonna call somebody?” He points to your phone and without thinking reaches for it to make the call himself. You hold it tight and pull your arms to your chest, turning slightly and protectively. You hear it _ring,_ and see that you have accidentally called Taron.

‘Accidentally.’ Right intention, wrong time.

He (bless his heart) answers immediately. “Yellow?”

“Taron, _heeeey_ –” You glare at Hader’s shoes. “I’m locked in the supply closet.”

He giggles. “Well how did you do _that?”_

You grit how it “Doesn’t matter.” You catch Hader looking at you, his eyes still wide. “Just hurry, please.”

You hang up.

You take a breath, its weight heavy on your lungs. You look up and plead for him to tell you, “What did I say?”

“No — _no_. I-I really _don’t_ think it’s that important.”

“What did I _say_.”

You step closer (He tries stepping back but there isn’t room) and crane your neck to look up at him.

He closes his eyes and runs his tongue over his lips before he hisses. “You know I just - it’s _fine.”_

 _“Hader!”_ You scold and stomp.

“It wasn’t—“ He sighs and looks you in the eye. He swears he can feel your heavy breaths brushing the skin of his neck as you try with all your might (stretched neck, on your tip-toes) to make yourself as in-his-face as you can. He sounds pitiful, like it stings his heart to talk about a secret that belongs to someone else. “It was just… _you started talking about how you feel like_ —“

The door swings open, a gust of wind and burst of light slapping you in the back and Hader in the face. You jump and look to see Taron holding the door and leaning on the door frame. He wiggles his brows at you two and smiles.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you groan. Your shoulder brushes against Hader’s chest as you turn from him, then slip past Taron.

Taron furrows his brows at Hader.

Hader sighs and shrugs, finally able to take a deep breath. “I-I don’t know.”

Taron purses his lips and watches you head back to the group.

“Thanks,” Hader grits, taking hold of the door from Taron.

Taron (ever polite) says “No problem man.”

Again – _what the fuck_.


	8. Stress Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Been a while! You turn stuff in late, Hader asks what’s up – this is the story of how you stress-cry in his arms. Enjoy.

You’ve been late, lately.

Not late-late; not on account of time and arrival, but late. Late work — turning things in barely out-of-time only for the sake of fixing a few extra details. Details, details…

You turn them in a day late, and that’s it. Nonchalantly too, slid onto Hader’s desk when his back’s turned as he talks to another student. Sometimes near the beginning of class, sometimes in the middle of class if you can manage it, but usually after. After class when you don’t stay to help with grading or just to catch up.

Apparently there was an incident in which you drunk-dialed him and slurred your feelings while on your couch in the presence of Pete, Taron, Saoirse, and Timothée…and the close-contact interaction in which you were locked in a supply closet and this news was revealed to you has _definitely_ hindered your willingness to be alone in the same room as him.

But, you can’t manage sneaking all the time. 

So you walk right up to him.

Lips tight in a forced smile, you wave, then bashfully clasp your hands in front of yourself. 

“Heeeey—“ Hader stretches, knuckles rapping his desk as he sits. “Haven’t talked to _you_ in a while.” He grabs some papers, taps them into a square, then sets it off to the side before looking at you.

“Heh,” you force, “About that—“ hold your bag to your hip, reach inside, and tease something out. “I’ve got something for you.” It’s your work, a piece due only last class but late nonetheless. You wiggle it forward and Hader sighs, eyes jumping between you and the paper as he plucks it and skims through it.

Shame. The work’s always good too. 

He clicks his tongue. “Nice…Hey can I ask about—“ He stops, seeing your shapeshifting expression. First you’re encouraging (overly so), then stricken with grief. Looks like you’re about to start sobbing but you wipe that face right off and you’re back to glee. A little toned down though…

(The phone-call certainly wasn’t in his memory, but your fear reminds him.)

(But, never mind that.) 

Hader watches students leaving from the corner of his eye. Second the last one leaves, he stands, runs his hands down the sides of his legs and settles them crossed over his chest. He tilts his head, thick brows furrowed. “Do you need to talk about anything…? Or _want to…_?”

Catches you off guard. Quite an open opportunity, not as boxed as you thought your options would be. 

You blink. “Yeah.” 

Yet your mouth goes dry and you can’t figure out what words you want to put into the world.

You stare at your shoes, the whites of your eyes turning pink. 

Oh, all the possibilities. You blink away an onset of tears, and after a quick sniffle, you face Hader with a brave face and nod at the door. “Over coffee?”

He blinks. “Uh, _yeah_. Sure. Yeah.”

As he puts his coat on, hiking his shoulders up to slip it on, you think about his body. Not in any inappropriate way (that’s as much as _I_ can say, I can’t control what you’re _really_ thinking about) but you think about his build. When he’s so far down the room or sat at his desk you don’t see it, but now you pay attention to his broadness. You hum, impressed. And he jolts you out of it. 

“Ready?” He asks, phone in hand and pointing toward the door.

You close your eyes tight and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Actually I uh…don’t want coffee — does Starbucks have _soda?”_

You need something to shock your insides. 

_You know what_? He doesn’t really need this jacket. He’s sweating already (your soft expression and pouty lips unrelated).

“Uhm…I….” He starts peeling his coat back off, starting with the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’m not sure?” He throws it over the back of his chair and comes around the front of his desk to lean against it. You lean too, more comfortably now, almost sat atop it but not quite there. He shrugs, palm to the wood. “We’ve got some in the _lounge?”_

You suppress your excitement, hold it deep down in your gut and it’s only a quiver of joy at something going right (for once) today, but he sees it. 

“C’mon, walk with me,” he says, nodding for you to follow him.

You don’t hesitate. But note that you take your bag with you, clutching it to your stomach as you make quick strides behind him down the hall. You put it on when the brief stares from others as though you’re a quivering little kid being taken to the principals office for misconduct gets the better of you and you stand straighter and not so pitifully. 

Takes you to the building’s lounge — empty, soda dispensaries colorful and glowing.

You follow him like a scared, hesitant puppy. 

_“SO—!”_ Hader starts. You jump as he gets himself a soda. You point past his shoulder to the one you want, and he presses it. “What’ve you been up to?” Two cans roll out and he hands you yours. You have a little toast, and the _click_ and _hiss_ as you pop them open shakes you a bit. 

Hader takes a drink then nods for you to go ahead and get to talking.

He leans against a counter, and you lean into one opposite him. 

You swish your drink around. Now that you have it — and now that you start explaining — you’re not sure you can stomach it.

You sigh, “Well…” and start talking. There isn’t much to explain that _he’d_ be interested in (you don’t think). But keeping it to academics, it’s quite a lot. So easily manageable before the student film and everything, before you had a group on different schedules always wanting to hear about and pitch something and just wanting to _hang out_. And you can’t pity yourself for getting a friend group that’s at least mildly interesting but you’d say your schedule was fucked enough on your own body’s account before it was being physically dragged to and from by people with their own sense of will and want. 

It goes in one ear and comes out the other — he’s not surprised at anything you’re saying.

You scoff, throwing your hand out. “Not to mention the film!” 

“Oh yeah?” He drinks, crinkling the can prematurely and letting the fizz sting him when he’s already drank too much because he’s too focused on you to put the can down. He pull it from his lips and swishes it around, listening closely to the soda splashing against the insides of the can. “How’s your group working out for you?”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. It’s-it’s fine. Everyone’s great, we get along and whatnot.” 

“Oh that’s uh, that’s fantas—“

“But then—!” You start, enthusiastic, taking a heavy breath before pushing your words out all in one. Then you cackle, and the laughter breaks your voice but not long before the tears do too. You hardly notice them, at least not acknowledging them, going for a painful swig after a sob when you can’t power through your own quiver to say your words. 

Hader’s face falls. Wasn’t smiling beforehand but there’s nothing that could make him now. 

“Hey — _Hey…” He pleads._

You hold your head in your hands, shake your hair out and with it attempt to rid yourself of the things forcing you to be so tearful. Hader stiffens, clenching his fists and stepping toward you uncertainly. He sets his can down on the counter before he gets too far, then he’s almost to you but unable to bring himself any further. 

But your fingers dig into your scalp as you weep and try to power through the sobs long enough and sufficiently enough to _explain_ yourself. 

And he can’t just stand and…watch. 

You flinch at his touch at first, before submitting to his hug. 

He isn’t sure if he’s doing this right. (Sure he knows how to hug but not the ‘proper’ way to go about hugging a student. He’s not sure if there _is_ one.) Hand on the back of your head, a hand on the small of your back — he gets there but his movements are gentle, hesitant. The weight of your sobs makes you sway a bit. He goes with it and it’s soothing. Still so gentle… 

You shake your head against his chest _“I’m sorry…”_

“Uhm, _hey,_ ” he clicks his tongue, “don’t apologize.” 

You shake your head more, try to crane your neck to look at him but can’t bring yourself to with the feeling of a stone in your throat and a similar pain in your lungs, your stomach. 

Pull away. You _want_ to. But you don’t want to look at him after this just as badly as you want to get away from him. Well, not from _him_. From _this_. 

His stiff pats (one, then two, using your skull like a bongo) develop into none at all for a few seconds before he lays his hand on the back of your head and strokes your hair.

He swipes his lips with his tongue. 

“Don’t worry about it…” 

Still hugging, still worried. 

“Get your things into me when you get them _in_ , alright?” And, after a pause, he forces, “But _don’t_ take that for granted.” You feel him try to tug you off of him. But it’s not as far away from him as you think. Just a bit, just enough so he can put his hands on your shoulders and force you to look at him. 

You nod, face flushed, nose twitching. You don’t move back in for the hug, just stand with your head on a loop, constantly bobbing in agreement as your eyes boggle to the individual specks in the carpet. 

But he hugs you again.

(Listen a little harder, ignore the beat of your heart and his, and you’ll hear him cooing.) 

“Just-just tell me what’s been going on, huh? We can work things out from there. Right?”

“Nothing,” you insist, “ _nothing_ ,” while swiping tears from your eyes. You step away and opt to hug yourself. You see his arms still ready to keep hugging before he decides you’re not coming back, so he drops them (slowly). It’s not nearly as warm or comforting. “Just a lot..? To keep track of?” You scoff and blink up to scare away the tears still in your eyes. One swipe, then another, and they’re all off your face with only red eyes and sticky trace to give your secret away. You laugh at yourself. “Don’t know _why_ it’s all coming down _now_ I’ve-I’ve powered through _worse_ to be frank and—“ 

He clamps his hands to the side of your arms. “You can do this — you’ll manage, okay?” 

You nod with the stroke of his hands, and rub your palms into your eyes.

Then a _click_ and a _woosh_ , the door opened. Hader steps back and you turn away from him.

It’s just—

“James!” At the door, as Hader pipes up, voice not relieved considering the situation but rather conflicted to see him. You keep your head down as ‘James’ (Professor Ransone) smiles at who he exclaims is “Bill.” He strides over, leaned back, drink in hand that he holds just by the cap. He nudges Bill with his fist, and when he furrows his brows at you and gestures you with his bottle, Bill’s brought back to your situation and his eyes are wide with worry. He’s flustered, sputters an excuse: 

“Oh Uhm th-this is uh—“ he snaps his fingers. Not at you but for the hell of it you step closer, chin up, hopefully the pink in your eyes gone, and your arms close to your body aside from one lifting just enough to give a fluttery wave before you tuck it back against yourself. 

Mr. Ransone _Aaah’s_ at your name. First it’s the _aah_ of one not all that curious, then an _aah_ as though he’s thinking _‘I see…’_ He squints and you squint back. You smile just the same, just as his lips curl into a mischievous one. His silence breaks with a cackle, and he jolts Hader as he holds his shoulder. 

“You the one Taron’s always talking about?”

Unsurprised, you nod. “Uh…yup..?”

Hader looks between you frantic. “Th-they actually came to see if they could use this space for their student film. Just figured we uh…would get everyone’s permission first.” He smiles. It’s a fake smile.

Ransone scoffs, “Psh! Of course!” Then settles himself by the sink to fill his bottle. He nods back behind him. “Saw Jessica on her way so you could ask her too.”

And she does, on cue.

Her heels aren’t much for carpet. But the waving of her fiery hair is attractive. 

Hader curses “Oh god,” and downs his pop like it’s a shot.

She slows, the dots still connecting. “Ooh..!” And there they have. She calls for you, calls for Hader with ‘playful’ warning. “How _are_ you?” And she _hugs_ you — a side hug that you don’t understand but admittedly are comforted by…when she reaches to flatten out a wrinkle on Hader’s shoulder, you quickly sniffle.

Ransone, amid a gulp, nods at her. She waves then her arm leaves your shoulder and she’s on the other side of the room doing what she came to do. 

“Ehm,” Ransone starts, skipping after. You take your spot back beside Hader who’s stiff as ever. 

You don’t hear it, but you can see it, see how Ransone’s head tilts back at you and Chastain peers over.

“Yeah that’s fine,” she says. She clears her throat as she finishes gathering some things from the fridge and leans back in the counter, waving her hair out of her face again. “So uhm, _Taron_ said you’d be interested in some personal experience for your script?”

Well, Taron never said anything to _you_. 

You blink, wonder what she means by ‘personal experience.’ 

“So how about we get some lunch, or a coffee?”

Ransone hisses, “He asked for my input too.” He pats Chastain’s arm, and Bill’s as he heads for the door. “Make it a dinner!”

Bill nearly cracks his neck watching Ransone walk off. “Wh—“

Jessica pushes herself away from the counter. “Well _Bill_ , of course you too,” she teases, meeting Ransone just in time for him to hold the door open. “We’ll figure something out.”

You shudder and put your head down. _More things to do._

Hader, stepping forward genuinely believing he’ll have a say to make everyone put their planners down, gently rubs your back before slipping past you and — _“well actually—“_

“Tomorrow night?” Chastain offers. 

“Uh, that one place at…?” Ransone continues, met by Chastain’s suggestion and he gives a triumphant _“Yes!”_

“It’ll be great!” Either she says, or he says. Maybe both of them say it because it rings in your ears long after the sound of the shut door does.

You blink. _Sorry_ to whatever plans you had for tomorrow night. 

“I’m…” Hader gasps and looks to you. “Gonna go tell them the deals off—“

“No,” you manage. “It’s fine. Might be nice…”

Against your words, you shake your head. Bill watches your fists twitch as you stroke your own fingers with your thumb for comfort. “Uhm,” you grab your drink and raise it, “thanks for this. And uh— _that_.”

Then you’re out of here.

Hader, to silence says, “No problem…”


	9. Dinner Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with professors doesn’t go according to your plans.

It’s a pretty dress. You can admit that. You feel iffy in it but it fits _well_. Wonderfully, actually. Saoirse raided your closet the moment she heard that _you_ (“little lady,” she teased) are going out to eat with _professors_. And no, not just one. But _three_. Professor Ransone suggested it, Chastain backed it up, and despite the creeping fear of the things that could happen on dinner with _professors_ , you declined Professor Hader’s offer to make the meal go away…

You cooped up in a school bathroom right after and slumped over the sink, eyes dry and nose still tickling with snot but as you glared p at yourself in the mirror, you became…interested in the unique opportunity.

You headed out in time to hide against a wall as Hader (curiously scratching his head) made his way back to class. And to your apartment you went — Saoirse already stationed there. Pete was the one who took the liberty of creating extra keys. How, when, where, and why he did this you still can’t figure out. But evidently, it was worth something.

**You texted her:** _Im going to dinner with the professors lol —_

In the middle of your breakdown.

And she was there waiting with her arm thrown over the back of your couch and legs crossed and up on your coffee table. You stopped, whiplash just from seeing her straight in front of you. You kicked the door closed after she gave a wave (gentle, fingers moving individually).

Then promptly kicked her _out…after_ the raiding of your closet and the discovery of a dress you haven’t worn since goodness knows.

You think it might have been one Halloween when you whipped up an easy costume.

_Maybe you were a cat? Maybe a ladybug? Maybe Wednesday Adams —_ who knows, it’s a dress, it’s versatile!

_“Oh god,”_ you spat, leaving your door open and Saoirse free to roam your apartment after she showed up today. She showed up _just_ for the fitting, but when you leave she doesn’t leave with you so to be frank you’ll pick at your nails the entire dinner worried she’s snooping or throwing a damn party. Nevermind that.

_You’re somewhat formal_.

“You’re going on a date with _professors!”_ She exclaims, “Gotta keep _sharp…”_ sounding disappointed you’re not as enthused as her about calling the dinner a ‘date.’ The multiple ‘professors’ trips you up the most, honestly.

You texted Taron to see what was up with you _apparently_ wanting to hear about Chastain and Ransone’s ‘life experience’. That was never the plan. He never answered, instead of mouthing his answer to you in the middle of class. Hader was painfully aware of your lack of attention – an extra sting to the fact that you actively refused to look him in the eye today. You never did understand what Taron was trying to communicate. He bolted out of class and you headed home, still without a chance to yell at him yet.

You’d ask him to come with you. But it’s too late for that…

“It’s not a date,” you grit through clenched teeth. “It’s a glorified ‘storytime’ video, I think. Gonna tell me cool experiences and whatnot…I think.” You roll your eyes and leave Saoirse, head to the kitchen where you drink the rest of your water, down it like a glass of wine..

Saoirse drags her feet behind you. You’re really not making this easy for her.

What exactly she’s doing for you though, you’re not sure.

“And—and _wait a minute_ —!” You scoff and lean forward, elbows on the counter, “Isn’t this place like a pub?” You get up and gesture your outfit. “Isn’t this considered _too_ formal?” You gesture your dress.

“No no—“ She waves your worries off, “you’ll be fine!”

She peeks at the clock over your stove, and yelps, hands flapping beside her before she starts pushing on your back.

“Okay, go go go!” But first she snatches at your phone and sees that indeed, your Uber is here. So she slaps the phone into your hand, gives you your things, and you’re out of your own apartment. The slammed door _wooshes_ your hair and dress forward before you get a chance to tell her to keep a good watch on the place.

You take a breath, steady your breathing.

“Oh hey—!” You look. Taron, Timothée, and Pete strutting down the hall. They get the door open in no time. Saoirse rises off the couch enough to wave at you again. You roll your eyes and glare at Taron. He has his backpack under his arm.

“Shouldn’t you be getting somewhere?” He asks, look smug and warning.

You furrow your brows. He pats your arm, heads into your apartment, and locks you out.

* * *

This place is warm.

In temp, in lighting. You appreciate it, your coat over the back of your chair.

It’s just you for now, swirling your complimentary water and eyeing the waiters and patrons that eye you. While looking off, sights on the shiny wood floor of this ‘pub’ (not too casual, not too formal, Saoirse had it right) one of three professors show up…Professor Hader — dressed semi-casual in normal pants and a black sweatshirt under his jacket.

You look when he says “Hi—“ voice of course the _same_ but missing the vital strictness and authority that comes so naturally when he’s teaching. Even when he’s driven you home and gone a bit outside of the ‘professor’ role he’s got some spice to it. You jump and watch him stand awkward with a hand up to wave and lips in a tight smile.

You raise your brows. “H…Hi!” Yet while standing you gesture for him to please, sit.

Your lips crick into a smirk.

Yes, he notices you, for lack of a better term, ‘checking him out.’

You snap yourself out of if. “You look…casual.” Not a bad thing. Definitely not a bad thing.

His face falls. He scrunches his nose up and shakes his head at himself. _You’re saying he looks like shit, essentially. Shoulda known to dress up — dinner with colleagues, dinner with a student?_ He closes his eyes tight, runs his tongue over his lips to prepare for stumbling over his words—

“Looks nice,” you say as you flatten out the back of your dress and sit down.

Hader blinks, eyes wide when he gets them back open. “Oh. Th-thanks.” And he sits.

“Guess we just…wait? I guess?” You shrug.

“Ehm yeah…listen sorry I couldn’t uh…stop this?” He says, scooting in.

You shrug, wave it off before holding the back of your neck for comfort. “It’s fine. Haven’t been out to eat in who knows how long, so…” You look around and watch waiters hauling around plates.

“Really?” He hums, nodding at the waiter who’s swooped in with menus and to introduce themselves. Quiet, you give thanks before they’re off. “Why’s that?” Hader asks, lip between his teeth.

“Well…” you shrug but know damn well the reason why. One of them, in particular, comes to mind. “Only people I have to go with much prefer breaking into my apartment and using my card to order take-out.”

Hader knits his brows. “Oh. That’s not…nice. _Are they…doing that right now?”_

You smile and wiggle your eyebrows. “Bingo.”

Hader slowly opens his menu. “Hmm…” He pretends to read, but you have the same questions. “Hey uhm—“ he takes a deep breath, “Wh…why-why would—“ He closes his eyes to think “—are you the _only_ one getting a say for your script? I mean, why wouldn’t Taron want to be here too if _he’s_ the one that asked Jessica and James?” Your eyes go wide at their names. He chuckles, “Sorry.”

You, smiling, think about that. And then you think… _maybe you should check up on them_. You look off, grin at the thought of the son-of-a-bitch you know and hate (Taron), and tap your knuckle on the table faster and faster. Then you stop and clench your fist, chin up at Hader. “Do you think you could check up on them? Sorry if I’m intruding I just don’t see either of them as the late-type.”

Hader mutters “Of course, of course,” and fishes his pocket for his phone. “We decided on—“

“Yeah yeah, _we’re_ on time.”

“Okay, just checking—“ and a _ring, ring, ring_. He runs his hand over his jaw, and makes a connection just as he lifts his phone to his ears and a basket of pre-meal bread is set down. You take a piece, start plucking pieces off and kneading it gently for comfort before you tear some and pop it into your mouth. You chew it in your cheek, head down and hiding as you watch Hader. “What do you mean _we called it off?”_ He puts his chin to his chest. “Mmmm…no-no I’m fine. Just wondering. Thanks…got it.” His phone’s back in his pocket and his palms flat on his thighs. He leans back, _smiling_ but you can see the strain as he explains: “We _canceled,_ apparently.”

You stop chewing, mumble “Well fuck,” with a full mouth before swallowing heavily. You hold your head in your hands. “I’m going to kill him.”

Hader leans and holds his hands together, elbows on the table as he looks down at you. “W-well maybe he texted you? Taron?”

You look up, smiling. “Taron was there to _greet me_ at my own house when I left.”

As irritated as you may have been preparing for this, you frown at the bread. “Do we have to pay?”

He watches your breaths, heart beating faster at the idea of having to explain _“Sorry, didn’t need this reservation after all!”_ And the judgment of having to admit you’re not _sure_ whether you pay if you didn’t end up ordering an entree Your hands are in your lap, fingers fiddling and picking at your dress.

“You know what?” Hader scrunches his nose and plucks some bread from the basket. “I can still help you.”

You bite your lip and tilt your head at him.

He shrugs, taking a nibble. “I could probably offer something. I mean—if you _want_.”

You nod. “Okay-okay.” And take a deep breath that ends in a smile. “Thanks. _Plus_ I’d have to get an Uber home and don’t want to awkwardly stand in here for however long it would take for them to get here.”

“Ah…So! Let’s order, then we’ll get talking. Sound good?”

You smile. “Sounds good.”

* * *

“What’re you guys going for?” Hader asks, hands clasped together and rested on the table. He quickly takes them back into his lap as your basket (bread gone, devoured) is replaced and he nods his head at the waiter. He curses him too for trying to fill you two up so quickly. But he also thinks, ‘ _bless his heart_.’

You take a long sip of your drink and hiss as you swallow. “Love.”

Hader’s smile (for lack of any cheesier phrase) turns upside down. “Oh.”

You rap the table with your fingers. “Yeah…we’re not all that uh… _experienced_ , per say.”

_“Well shit, me too—_ “

You furrow your brows. “What?”

“Hmm?” He hums, lips in a crooked smile. “So you going for unrequited love? ‘True’ love, or—“

You cackle. _‘True’ love_. You like the way he says it. Like it’s something bizarre, something _untrue_ and unbelievable. But hey, sometimes you find yourself believing that too.

You, raising your glass and tilting it forward with your head, say, “You can say that again.”

And he finds your mutual pessimism charming enough for him to smile.

Whether you do or you don’t believe in true love (soulmates is a different story) doesn’t matter. Either way, sometimes it just feels…worse. Farther from reality, farther from ever possibly being true.

“Uhm, it’s about like…how do I put this—we’ve got two couples. One is like the picture-perfect couple but like… _natural,_ y’know? They aren’t super lovey-dovey but they have these little quirks which is what we’re trying to show. The other traditionally would have been the picture-perfect couple considering they’ve got everything going ‘right’ for them that would lead them down that path. Like being–”

“Childhood friends?” He chimes in (with a–).

“Yeah! Yeah yeah. Childhood friends, approving parents, they’d probably get into the same college or something.”

Gee, sounds familiar.

“Meanwhile the other couple is just the opposite in every possible way but we don’t want it to be _obvious_. Things shouldn’t have worked out with them but it did better than anyone could have imagined.”

“Mmm, I see.” He crosses his arms. “Got it. Now…what would you need from me?”

You sputter and fumble with setting down your drink. “I mean, if you’ve got _experience_? Like….” You’ve never thought to ask of this. You wonder if you should; wonder if it’d be best if you didn’t. But he’s waiting, eyes urging for you to continue. They get worried too, for what question you’re thinking to ask could be so monumental that you’re worried to ask it. “Are you married? Or, I don’t want to _intrude_ , even d—“

“No,” he pops, seeming relieved, underwhelmed even. “Not married. Never have been.”

“Oh…” And you deflate. Here you see another case that only seems to contribute to your disbelief. “Um, sorry.”

“No it’s fine. Not like something _horrible_ happened. Just haven’t… _had any luck I guess._ ”

“In?” _Dating, love, marriage?_ “I mean, can’t say _I’ve had any._ ” You chuckle and look down at yourself. “Don’t see _this_ winding up with anybody.”

“Psh. You’re in your twenties, you’ve got time.”

You challenge with “And you don’t?” Your lips creep and you feel your smugness but do nothing to stop it. Your look lingers on seductive. You’ve got your chin up, and sly eyes on him.

You debate the concept of love. Well, love and Hader’s relationship with it.

He says it’s _“Never been the right time,”_ and you go, _“Yet.”_

He says he’s _“Accepted it,”_ and you go _“You only find it when you stop looking for it.”_

He, fighting a smile from your surprise _optimism_ this time around, laughs out how he’s _“Happy”_ with it. But you don’t know what to say to that. Maybe he really is. You look off, and still smile. You nod your head, keeping your eyes down, whisper _“Maybe I am too…”_

And he, curious, looks at you.

* * *

The conversation devolves into what it was meant to be.

Hader has quite the stories. Unsure if you remember the stories themselves or the faces he made while telling them (he giggled hysterically at one point, bowed his head down and held his hands over his mouth to get himself under control as your waiter approached with your meals) You egg him on, silent and watching.

“Now,” He starts, poking at his food, voice deep, lowly, “about yesterday—“

You throw your head back and groan.

With his chin to his chest, “Are you _alright_ , Y/n.”

“I’m _fine_!” You cry out. “That was just like, a weird mix of emotions.” He raises a brow. “Really!” And you raise your drink, lips ghosting the frosty rim. “I’m all better now. Thank you though, really.” And you sip.

“….Do you need a drink?” He eyes the bar. You slow, swallowing harsh. To accept or to not accept? Neither. You see him tug the edge of his shirt down before waving your waiter over. He asks for a drink on your behalf, furrows his brows with his hand still in the air from calling him over,he whispers “Are you…?”

And you nod fast. “Yeah, I’m uh—yeah.” A quick show of your ID and your waiter’s out of there.

The waiter comes back with the drink Hader order for you. And hell, _it ain’t bad_. It’s good, even. You sip it, humming impressed as you hold the straw between your fingers. He’s got a look that says _‘what can I say?’_ He’s experienced in that regard, you guess.

You push your non-alcoholic drink to the side.

He orders himself one too when he figures enough time has passed for him to ask the waiter and not seem so _needy_.

He can’t say it’s the drinks that prompt him to ask (only one down the hatch and it’s subtle, he’ll be good to go by the end of the night) but with the tension broken he crosses his arms on the table and asks, “Okay but why did _Taron_ ask? Like, I’d figure at least _he’s_ ‘experienced’ so why would he ask for _ours_?”

It takes you a moment to get his question.

“Uhm…Taron’s a tricky guy. You’d _think_ he’s this womanizing bastard but he’s kind of a _real softy_ for like, romantic stuff, y’know?”

“Ah.”

“I mean—“ You chuckle, lean back and hold your hands up in defense, “I can probably attest to how ‘pure’ he is in physical regards—“ Hader furrows his brows “—which to be frank _isn’t very much_ , but he’s definitely a softie for like roses, and dates, and chocolate. The type to make you breakfast in bed after—“ Hader chokes on his drink. You smile, give a little “Whoops… _you know what I mean_ ,” before you _wink_ and take a drink.

He’s still clearing his throat, soothing the ache in his neck. _“Yup, I got it.”_

Then you’re down to just ice-cubes.

Your waiter swoops by with his hands folded behind his back. “Care for a free dessert for the happy couple? And another?” He points at your drink with his hands pressed together.

And Hader, at this point mad at his body’s consistent failure, chokes on his drink _again_. He keeps his head down, sleeve to his lips as he tries to get his bearings. You sit straight, hands held together and you chirp _“Sure!”_

But you’ve still got your dinner. The waiter says that’s okay — baking the dessert will take about just as long as it takes for you to finish eating dinner. Hader, head down, finally looks when you ask “So what do you think?” He looks and sees a menu has appeared in front of him. He takes it from the waiter, holds it but doesn’t look at it, only looks at you confused and trying to eye you a secret message that says _‘what the fuck’_ but you ignore it.

You raise your brows. “Do you like creme brûlée?”

Hader looks between you two. “Uh, y-yeah. Yeah.” And the waiter whisks the menu away.

“Perfect. It’ll be ready when you’re done with dinner. And your drink will be right out.”

Hader watches him leave. When he’s gone, off talking to others with the menu tucked under his arm, he snaps his neck to look back at you. You’re leaned back, an arm over your stomach and your hand clutching your glass, swirling the ice around, waiting for it to melt so you can get those last few gulps of your sweet drink before your second comes.

Hader points over his shoulder. “Does he think we’re—“

“Yup,” you smirk. You look past Hader and at the guy. Bless his heart, and bless your free treat.

Hader, trying to figure out how he should feel about this, ( _“You’re just pretending for the free dessert, no biggie.”)_ doesn’t see you take out your phone. You single out Saoirse’s contact and type with one hand. Hader puts his hands on his head and leans back, taking a deep breath, lips pursed. He’s maybe finally calming down. Then he sees you looking like you belong in _Empire_ or _Dynasty_ as the type of family-heir who always looks conniving with a glass of wine in hand. You text Saoirse:

**You:** they think we’re on a date

Your phone _pings_ and sparks Hader’s curiosity. He takes his phone out for the hell of it as to not seem like he’s just _watching_ you.

**Saoirse** 🌼 **:** 😉

**Saoirse** 🌼 **:** are you having a good time

**You type with very little hesitation:** yes

**Saoirse** 🌼 **:** Is he cute 😗

**You:** of course he is

**You:** butfuck you 🖕

You set your phone screen-down, groan at her and pinch your nose in frustration but Hader sees you’re smiling too. He puts his phone in his pocket, gives you a tight smile (sincere).

“So—!”

_And your phone pings_. You roll your eyes, flip it over for a moment, swipe up and get a look at your whole conversation with her. Another message, simple, evil.

**Saoirse** 🌼 **:** 😘

You roll your eyes and set your phone down, hold your chin in your hands and urge him to continue.

Your screen’s still bright though. With the commotion of a boisterous group sitting somewhere around you, you look away. He peaks at your phone, eyes strained And when you look back, even his _cheeks_ are pink. You, not knowing any better about why (but finding his flush certainly something), go for the _click_ and turn your phone off.

And he goes on, hands in his lap, tongue stuttering.

* * *

Hader offers you the last spoonful. He pushes forward the porcelain bowl, says “No, really,” when you insist that you don’t _need_ the last piece and he can have it. But even more determined, he still insists.

So you dig in, get a nice scoop of the creme brûlée and have the spoon upside down and between your lips, on your tongue as you hold it there so _innocently_ and you eye the newly-approached waiter, there to swoop in and take the bowl the second it’s clean.

You slip the spoon out of your mouth, _pop_ your lips as you run your tongue over them to clean up, then nibble on your spoon.

Hader snatches the check. He’s scribbling away and looking so, so interested in what to pay.

You whine, pull the spoon from your mouth. “Hey! What are you doing?”

He freezes. “…Paying?”

You beckon for him to hand it over. He holds it tighter, turning his shoulder to you.

“We’re splitting, c’mon.”

He shakes his head, mouths the word before he says it — _“No.”_

You roll your eyes. “Come _on_ , we’re not _actually_ on a date, you don’t have to do that.”

“I’m doing it because you are a _college_ student…And I don’t want him to think I’m a bad _date who_ makes you split the check.”

You sigh. “Fine,” and take out your phone. “But I’m paying you back.”

(He says _“Nope,”_ under his breath.)

“Do you mind stalling a little bit? I don’t want to wait too long for my Uber.”

He’s whispering the percentages to himself. Hmm, Prof leaves a good tip. “What?” He scoffs. “No, I’ll just drive you home. Done it before – I don’t mind.” 

You lower your chin, look at him from behind your brows. “Are you sure? You’re fine with that?”

The waiter takes the check as Hader hisses _“Yes,”_ because of _course he’s fine with that._

Waiter’s back before long, wishing you two a good night.

Hader puts his jacket on and you watch him smiling like a goof as he nods from the door, to you, his hands deep in his pockets already.

When stood, you remind him that you’re wearing a dress.

So he says “You look nice,” after a hum, unsure if he said it before. Figures it won’t hurt to say it again if he already did. You fix the collar of your coat and despite the claims of how nice you looked from Saoirse you suddenly feel…warm. As though this is any different.

Too bashful to say thank you, you flush and dip your head.

The wind hits hard. But with the surrounding buildings and less-open outdoors than your campus, it’s not as startling. You still stand close to him though, of course, feeling his warmth and as usual, he doesn’t budge you off his shoulder.

When you get in the car, he hands you the aux cord.

* * *

“Well!” At your door, you try ignoring the cacophony of your mates inside your apartment. You smile an apology, hearing Pete curse and Saoirse choke on her laughter. _Goodness, what on Earth did they break_? “Thank you for tonight despite the fact that things didn’t go _exactly according_ to plan.” You wince, Taron shouting something right on cue.

Hader sways on his heels. “Ah, no problem. It was nice.”

“I thought so too…Anyways—!” You unlock your door, hear the _click_ , and put your foot in the doorway to keep it open.

Professor Hader salutes, fingers to his forehead as you squeeze into your apartment and try keeping his frame hidden from your obnoxious friends. They shout _“WELCOME HOME”_ And the door closes in his face with a gust of wind.

He hums to himself, content.

And smiles when he hears you shout: “I’M GOING TO _KILL YOU_ ,” at who he can only hope is Taron.


	10. Insta Time *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "i reeeeeally want to know if professor hader ever stalked reader’s social media (and maybe found something cool about her like maybe she was a ballerina or she was in a band idkkk)"

It was a mistake, okay?! It was an honest-to-God mistake, that started with a phone number. Now, he didn’t look _intentionally_ ….he pressed “okay” when Instagram offered to sync the numbers in his phone to his account. Why did he decide to go and get himself an Instagram? He doesn’t _know_ why, but as of this moment (checking the time at the top of the screen, **9:26** at night) he regrets it.

Partially.

He wouldn’t have guessed it was your account he’s been recommended. Not from the username or the profile pic (he vaguely recognizes the cartoon character in it) and your face isn’t front and center in many of your recent pictures, but he scrolled down, and he eventually got there, figured it out.

He let out “ _Ooooh_ ….” in his kitchen, scrolling with one thumb, his other arm wrapped around his stomach.

Instagram is a trap.

He scrolls through your profile, sees you doing this and that, comes across some tasteful memes that (for the sake of easing those of us who take finstas somewhat seriously) work aesthetically with your ‘real feed.’

There’s a picture of you and Taron.

There’s a picture (recent) of you and Saoirse (or rather Saoirse taking a selfie of you two while you’re completely unaware and she is _beaming_ ).

Here’s some humorous shots of you taking pictures of yourself as though the chaos in the back of a typical frat party isn’t happening. With smeared makeup, scruffy hair, and beer spilled on your outfit in this one where a fight has seemed to break out overtop a pool table…. _you’re still rocking it._

No — _no_.

There’s no room for those types of thoughts….yet Hader scrolls deeper.

So, fun fact — _you may or may not have been in a band._ Maybe you were doing it for a skit (that’s what he first thinks). Regardless, the second slide’s a video of you _playing_ the guitar in question…it’s a nice guitar too. It ain’t cheap. It’s one of those slick black ones with white behind the strings, but inverted (white body, black accents), the strap covered in ironed-on rose decals and rose-painted picks to match.

Maybe you learned a few chords and that’s all. 

The caption isn’t too serious. Sounds jokey. With all you have in your schedule already there is no way in hell you’re in a band too…

But the picture _itself_ stumps him!

You’ve got your hair out of your face, a devilish, seductive smirk, wearing black bottoms and a black tank-top to pair with black gloves decorated with rose decals and on one hand he thinks your outfit is _way_ too coordinated for this to all have come about naturally — you probably volunteered for a friend’s freelance short-film. But he would also have guessed from that _smirk_ and that confidence you were a _bass_ player instead.

His heart chokes.

A bass player like him. How to work that into a conversation, he wonders.

In a tiny… _tiny_ part of his brain, a light bulb flickers.

Someone, somewhere, at some time in his life told him to not date bass players. (Bill, a bass player himself, and a clumsy college kid at that.) _For bass players know how to keep a beat._

He takes one last look, one last scroll through your feed with a single flick of his thumb.

He wonders if that same concept in its naughty glory applies to—

Nope, _never mind!_

He closes the app.


	11. Hot + Angry *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Here’s a drabble request! “Wow...you’re hot when you’re angry.” Also thank you for Teacher’s Pet, you’re like the only Bill writer that deserves any rights. Keep on keepin on, bb 💕" ~ Anon

Professor Hader hears commotion outside. 

It’s not the usual — not the passing of his flocked students. It’s more purposeful, emotional. _Anger_ , he realizes. And he thinks ‘none of my business’ before there’s a shrill _shriek_ then more organized talking in a voice remarkably like yours. He furrows his brows then holds tight on the papers in hand before inching toward the door.

He peeks around the corner and there you are — back to him and chin up toward Pete who looks as angered as you sound.

You poke him in the chest, harsh.

Hader steps out and his steps toward you are strong. Less people in general would let the way his steps shake the floor resonate better. But then, he stops, as Pete smiles. (He’s about to shout _‘HEY!’)_ but—

“Wow…” Pete lets out a breath, bewildered. “You’re _hot_ when you’re angry.” 

You clench your jaw and fists. You fight a smile, a pained one so tight and irritated, but his attempted snickering is _getting to you._

“Focus!” you snap, clapping your hands together and poking the tips of your fingers into Pete’s chest. He straightens out, ‘serious,’ clutching his script. 

You bear your eyes into his, waiting, testing. 

Hader watches closely.

And Pete breaks, sputtering first before stumbling back and looking anywhere else. 

“I’m sorry - you cant just—“ he laughs.

You groan and lean into him, the top of your head in his chest. You let your arms hang limp and you continue to make noise in your anguish. He holds his hands up in defense, saying “Sorry! I’m just-“ and breaking into more laughter. 

You close your eyes tight, _tighter_ , before cackling. 

“Ugh!” You grunt before standing straight. You run your hand through your hair, fix it up and stomp, turn around. Hader jumps, expecting you’ll see him but your fingers are to your lips, your eyes glued shut, and you take a breath.

You let it out as you turn back to Pete…and say your _line_. 

Oooh…. _your line._

Hader gasps. His cheeks fill with air, he nods solemnly, tells himself to remember that, then continues on his way. He passes you and Pete, and you do see him, taking a peak while you wait for Pete to say his line through his laughter. 

Hader looks back at you, but just as you look at Pete again.


	12. My Shirt *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "for tp, maybe a drabble based off the prompt ‘is that my shirt?’" ~ Anon

“Is that my shirt?”

You know for a fact that (maybe) it is most certainly not. You look down, tug at the fabric in the middle of your chest. It’s a Radiohead shirt, just one you wear to bed sometimes. It’s soft, got a touristy smell about it, like it does indeed belong to somebody else, but… 

“Uh,” You chuckle, show your teeth at Hader who’s just now thinking there’s no possible way it could be. Give him a break, he’s tired. “No…?”

“Sorry,” He groans, pinches his nose. “I-I don’t know… _why_ I–” He whispers, _“Doesn’t make any sense…”_ grips his desk before murmuring “Sorry about that,” and giving a smile. 

You look again, tug your shirt again. 

“You too?”

“Hmm? Oh! Oh-oh yeah, psh, are you kidding me…” He shakes his head, rolls his eyes like it’s no big deal. “Basically shaped my music taste when I was a kid.”

You cross your arms and keep smirking at him. He pauses in case you want to say something but no, not yet. You find pleasure of sorts in listening to him talk.

“Got me into playing _bass_ , actually.” He lazily points at your shirt and steps forward. 

You bite your lip, raise your brows. _He plays too, huh?_

Hader, only a moment too late, _remembers that he knows you do too._ It’s like the reminder to casually throw that factoid into a conversation burrowed itself in his subconscious. Well… _mission accomplished!_

“You do?” You laugh.

He smiles at your laugh. “Yup…” 

“Same here.” And, like it’s some secret rocker-greeting, you hold your fist to him. He bumps it and feels overjoyed just from doing it. 

He scrunches his nose up, “Really?” Apparently he’s not just a good screenwriter but an excellent actor too. You wouldn’t believe he _did_ know that already even if he had accidentally liked your pics on Instagram. 

“Yeah! We should get together have a…” you squint and really make a point in saying the words “’ _Jam sesh’_ sometime. Isn’t that what they used to say back in your day?”

“ _Ha ha,_ funny. We get it –” Hader walks around his desk to stand before you. And you, seeing how the room’s empty now, start walking backward, clutching the strap of your bag. “It’s because I’m old.” 

“Eh?” You scratch behind your ear just as your back bumps against the door. “Don’t sell yourself short.” 

His brows shoot up. He stops walking.

You look him up and down – _he notices you do it this time._

“Age is just a number. You’ve got a lot going for you.” 

He would try to speak but he can’t. He’s busy trying to not smile like a goober. 

You smile so sweetly, so playfully, and he thinks you’re about to leave but you stop, let the door stay open with your foot acting as a stopper. And you smirk at him. “ _Also,_ my mom always said to never trust a bass player.” 

He didn’t think his eyes could get wider, but he proves himself wrong.

And you _wink_ at him, stepping out the room. 


	13. Starbucks *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "please consider ra!mulaney 👀 he confiscates weed from some freshmen on his floor. he and pete let themselves into your apartment, two liter mountain dew bottle they had macgyvered into a ‘bong’, asking what toppings you would like on your pizza. you sigh, abandoning your paper thats not due for another two days anyway. heading to the kitchen, you sit on the cold tile and open a recent text conversation, hesitating. “starbucks?”. send. the three dots last an eternity. “want a ride?”"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ra!mulaney has been omitted because I have other plans for him. But thank you so much for the following events -

Pete asks _“What’s that sound?”_ doped up when it happens for only the fifth time. It’s you banging your head against a floor-cabinet in the kitchen. It’s popped open with too many pots and pans, and closes with just enough weight on it — the weight of your head. 

You stop, wait, hear him giggle, then do it again. 

Stopping for a second lets you register how raw the tip of your skull is. It hurts more this time around. So, for your sake and yours alone, you stop. It’s your damn house, you can make as much annoying repetitive noise as you want.

Taron and Pete, after the high from a poorly sculpted and sharp-edged mountain-dew-bong kicked in, ordered themselves two pizzas; a Hawaiian pizza, and a Meat Deluxe. They might not get stains on your floor, your carpet, or make cola-condensation rings on your coffee-table, but the smell of dough, grease, and the frankly foul odor of weed will continue to fill your home well into tomorrow.

The buzzing turquoise clock on your stove reads 𝟳:𝟬𝟵 and your phone almost confirms it when it’s turned to 𝟳:𝟭𝟬.

You have a paper due in two days and a taste for a sweet drink. So, procrastinating for a little while won’t harm you (said every student ever), and you swipe to your messages.

Before you is a drunken memory: **im unloveable lol.**

You mutter “Ew” at the pity you gave yourself. Then type: **starbucks?**

That’s not weird. 

It may be seven at night, but Hader’s been in his office this late before. If he is, you can head there now and swoop in as though you were passing and just happened to bring it up. You’ll act like you weren’t thinking about him from your humble home. And if he’s not there, then no biggie. He’ll tell you that.

**Seen** appears under your message in a faint grey font.

Then a bubble…and three dots. They hop up and down, fade in and out and you watch like a hawk for the moment they’ll stop.

**want a ride?** He responds. 

Ah, so he’s at home. He’s cozy at home, and you’re cozy in yours. 

What is there to worry about? Well, you have a few options: 

**1.** You can worry about what he’d think about you messaging him while at home. Will he think it weird you were thinking about him while not even on campus? Would he not notice, or not care?

**2.** Or you can be elated that he agreed to get coffee with you despite not being on campus. Despite being home. 

Alright, so turns out you don’t have that many options to be worried about.

Is it too dismissive or unthankful when you respond with a simple: **yeah.**

You get up, slip on some shoes, and bundle yourself in a coat but beside that you’re in your pajamas and ready to go. You mutter the typical spiel _“Don’t break anything, don’t snoop, don’t yada yada-”_ while shoving some cash in your pockets as you head out. Pete puckers his lips, blows you a kiss from a far, and Taron waves.

You sigh “Yeah yeah,” as you step into the hall. 

Your apartment’s lobby is pretty cozy at night. They only have one light – the one right above the door and by the main office, and it’s a warm, yellowing chandelier. 

You sit on the stairs hoping you’ll see his car when he drives up. 

(Realistically you won’t because of the headlight’s glare.)

It’s freezing. 

You pull your jacket tighter and loll your head around. The heating system is atrocious but the air-conditioning is impeccable.

You nod off, eyes closing slow and body numb. You need this coffee more than you thought. But the door opens and you hazily look up. Hader’s coming in, first blind to you and in his own little head. He stops when he sees you. He expected he would make his own way up. But a pleasant surprise, perhaps?

He doesn’t say anything, just points over his shoulder.

Now you’re in his car, blessing the heat and using the headrest as a pillow. You fiddle with the aux cord, put on some Destroy Boys, watch him carefully to see if he likes it. He turns it up a notch. He likes it. You turn away content now.

He’s not dressed formally, not dressed like a…’professor.’ He doesn’t have the ironed pants or the buttoned-up plaid. Instead, regular pants, a plain T-Shirt, and a zip-up jacket. But he’s recognized, gets some greetings as you walk to the Starbucks on-campus. He gives faint waves, but doesn’t talk.

Inside already and you still haven’t this entire way. 

The warmth inside thaws out your throat, and you give your order. He gives his (“Caramel latte?”) voice hoarse, unused since class. 

“Uhm, actually…?” You speak up. “Can I get a strawberry açaí instead of the coffee?” 

It’s bound to have some caffeine but not nearly as much as the former. 

Hader smiles. About time you listen to his advice. 

But he’s still allowed to drink caffeine cause he’s not the one with a habit of sleeping in late after restless nights. 

Anyways, the place is still. It’s quiet. More chatter would make your silence better. Instead there’s the whir of machines, and whispers shared between the two workers. 

“Alrighty. We’ve got a caramel latte and the açaí.” She holds your drinks. 

You prepare the loose bills in your pocket and Hader goes to hand her his card.

Before you ask, no, you don’t think as you do the following: 

You gasp, snatch his card, and _flick_ it across the room with more energy and better aim than he could have expected from you. You’d be a hell of a baseball pitcher. He slowly brings his arm back to himself, and it takes a moment for the shock to settle. His face is soft before turning suddenly sharp. He does a double take, from his empty fingers, to the floor, to you.

You’re staring back without a linger of doubt, brows harsh, and you set your cash on the counter. No, you _slam_ it down, keep your hand there until the girl (while _laughing_ ) takes the money. 

Hader blinks. He looks at the girl, and goes “Wow.” 

As proud as you are, you giggle nervously, and point over your shoulder. “I’ll uhm…get that.” You dip down to the floor, and Hader laughs, shaking his head.


	14. Mr. Mulaney

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well….

“Hello, children — hello! I, am Professor _Mu-la-ney_ , and I will be substituting for Professor Hader this week for you see, he is currently at a _conference_.” 

You blink in the doorway with two Starbucks drinks in hand — yours, and a caramel latte for you _suppose,_ Mulaney.

“Uhm…” You hesitate forward and stretch your arm to give him the coffee, stretch it as far as you can.

“Oh!” His lips split into a satisfied smile. “For me?” And he takes it with both hands. “Thank you — what kind?”

It sounds like it pains you to answer, but, _“Caramel latte.”_

He hisses _“Nice,”_ before a gentle sip, cautious of the steam fluttering out the lid. Like a curious child, you watch with no restraint, no attempt at politeness, but rather something like contempt or better-yet, _cautious curiosity_. The name _‘Mu-la-ney’_ rings well…. _and familiar too_ , but you can’t wipe off your scowl or your urge to test him this class at _every, single, corner_.

As he blows his coffee to a cool, he catches you. Together, you’re frozen, waiting for one of you to make a move. Stalking to your seat, you check him out. He’s half certain as you take your first step, that you’ll make your way back around and circle him into submission. But you are no predator, and he is no prey. 

Gee. He wouldn’t have guessed ‘Hader’s girl’ to be so _ferocious_. 

* * *

Mulaney is the shapeshifting kind. If you’re quiet and play nice, he’ll be the same. But if you’re loud, dismissive, _obnoxious_ even, he’ll be two times as such. Jumping between Taron’s _eager hand_ and your strict one (ready to trip him up) is a hell of a show for the rest of the class to watch. It’s a brutal whiplash: “Why _yes_ , Taron?” Versus “Ehm, _Y/n,”_ with a hiss _almost_ as sharp as the way you pronunciation every syllable of _Mu-la-ney_.

At a point, you smirk and tap your pen against your desk, hum impressed at the answer he gives. Because for every one of your attempts to mess with him, he has an answer you can’t counter. He’s trained on this class’ subjects, he isn’t just following a heap of sub-notes. And he smirks as well, your questions equally as immersive and impressive. 

You keep your chin up and watch him with a smirk that he can admit _almost_ gets to him. 

* * *

The end of class rolls around and you can say you’re satisfied with the overall banter.

You’re _tired_ after this class’ banter. It was like a speed round whereas your banter with Hader only has you and Taron leading the class into battle. But it was a three-man show this time. Everyone else, perhaps frightened, kept their lips shut.

You hurry to the desk. Mulaney sits, mumbling Hader’s notes to himself. You knock your finger in the wood under his sight and watch, wait for him to notice. He ignores your looming shadow for a while. Then he stands straight, smiling, but really he’s ready to jeer. But your face is soft now. You’re tired, too tired to keep up with the game anymore. And he blinks in surprise and his new face reads as welcoming.

“Oh. Hello.”

Nodding, your lips twisted, you force, “Hi.” 

“Well…can I help you?”

“Yeah, uhm, when did you say Hader was coming back?”

“Ahh!” He holds up a finger — _wait just a moment, young one_ — and looks through the sub-notes. You tilt your head with his to get an early look. Out from the pile he pulls a flyer printed on card stock, glossed and colored nicely with calm greens, white, and turquoise. The conference has something to do with teaching (the specifics don’t matter to you) and it runs from this Monday to _Thursday_. 

You clench your jaw. “Ahh…I see…” 

You, tongue in cheek, roll up the flyer and lazily point it at Mulaney. “So, where’d you come from? Why do I feel like I know you…?” 

He smiles with hands behind his back like a salesman, ready to sell you his name _and_ his story. “I, am actually an _alumni_.” 

You squint. “Yeah but I feel like I know you from somewhere _else_ too.”

He leans his front forward. “ _With_ Bill.” 

You look him up and down. _Ahah…_ you hear bells — _ding ding ding!_ Hader’s mentioned Mulaney at least once. It’s a question though of it he mentioned it before or _after_ you actually gave a rats ass about listening to Hader’s words.

“Hmm. Do you have a teaching degree? Or are you just a friend?”

“Oh! That too. I _am_ qualified, don’t worry. In fact, we took this same exact class together.” 

You smile. Then the weight of Taron’s hand on your shoulder sparks a scowl. You force it away though and smile cheekily as can be. 

Taron’s already having trouble restraining himself. Making sure his thoughts are right with one last look, he points and shouts, “You’re John Mulaney!”

And Mulaney, hand to his chest, does a small bow. “Indeed I am. And _you_ , are Taron. I’ve heard much about both of you!”

Taron’s filled with glee. “Is it-is it true that you—“ You rack your brain to see where he’ll go next, trying to remember all of the crazy schemes and now legendary memes of his fraternity that he’s always talking your ear off about. 

(You mutter _“Oh yeah,”_ just now realizing Mulaney’s one of those legendary fraternity guys.) 

“Yes, everything you will probably ask me, is true.” Mulaney’s got this _voice_ ….it’s so peculiar and distinct, _slightly_ monotone but with this _flick_ near the end that sounds like he’s mischievous and proud of it. Which is why it’s both strange yet understandable when he looks between you and admits, “Yes, I used to do a _lot_ of drugs, but no I will _not_ supply you.” Taron deflates. You furrow your brows at Taron and nudge him with your elbow. Seems like a question poor Mulaney gets a lot.

Anyways, “What’ve you heard about me?” You ask. 

Mulaney sighs and clicks his tongue as he looks through some papers. Again, you try and read the paper he hunches over. 

“That you are an absolute _treat_ —“ your brows shoot up “—in class—“ oh “—and to expect quick-witted conversation.” You eye the paper. There’s _so_ much more than that. And as you start to think that a maybe he’s pulling your finger, he says “and a lot more _Bill_ would _murder me_ for if I chose to read, so—!” He waves you and Taron goodbye. 

Taron waves ~~(almost as violently as a kid waving at a boat)~~. He drags you with him.

You don’t _fight_ , busy keeping your smile under control as you just _think_ of the possibilities. 

* * *

You drop your bag on Mulaney’s desk around five at night (the sun already down around this time of year, Halloween just around the corner) and he jumps before giving a polite “Oh, hello.” He blinks and holds his hand out. _‘Join me’_ he says. You look where he gestures and see he has already brought a _chair_ in. A pleasant surprise. You sit, and as a token of your gratitude, you take your bag off the desk. 

You scoot to sit directly in front of him and engage in a battle of staring.

“What else did he say about me?”

Normally you wouldn’t _impose_ (that is a lie) but something about this _Mulaney_ pulls every little need to speak your mind and be mischievous out of your body. You feel like it’s a crime if you aren’t so open with the man who speaks so _neatly_ that the most bizarre statements out of his mouth sound as formal as Shakespeare and scripture. 

“He said to be here at,” he looks at his watch, “five in the afternoon because there would be a good chance you’d come.” 

You furrow your brows. “Did he really?”

Mulaney freezes. Dammit! You can’t _decipher_ this guy from _anything_ — with a poker-face like that you’d bet he’s a gambler. And with that in mind, you think _‘Of course he’s bluffing’_ — oh wait, no he isn’t. He grabs the paper and covers most of the text with his hand. He singles out the exact line. 

You mouth ‘wow,’ and Mulaney goes _“I know.”_

_“What else?”_

He sits straight and leans forward. “What for?”

You raise your chin. “I’ll bring you a coffee every morning this week.” 

“I prefer green tea.”

“Deal. _What else_?” 

He smirks and doesn’t try to hide it. He raises the paper to hide all but his eyes, and skim through the whole thing until he finds something interesting. “ _Bill_ told me to not call him _Bill_ in in front of you because you might not like that.” You nod and urge him to continue on. He lowers the page, then brings it back up. “And that since it is the week of Halloween, to not be _startled_ if you show up to the classroom drunk.”

You groan “That was _one time_ ,” pleading for him to believe you.

“Oh!” Mulaney smiles and wiggles his brows. “ _And_ he gave me hesitant permission to joke about _NyQuil_ in front of you.” He waves the paper. “That’s not in here, that was just in casual conversation!” 

Your brows jump. ”You talked about me?”

“Oh he has stories about _everyone_. He also told me to look out for _Pete_ ,” he pops the P and looks to the empty classroom. “But I’m afraid I did not see a _Pete_ today. And frankly, I would _love_ to meet him.” 

“Ah….Pete’s quiet, you wouldn’t know his name is Pete when you first see him.”

“Well, what name does he look like?”

You think about it. “He doesn’t look like a Pete…. _until you get to know him_. You’ll look at him and probably think he looks like a Jordan or Cameron or something.” 

The way you squint at each other as you try to uncover this mystery strikes deep in both of you.

He nods slowly. “I _think_ I get why Bill likes you now.”

_“What?”_

He flicks up a finger. “Quick question — was Pete the fellow in the front with the yellow checker-pattern sweater, overalls, and a cigarette behind his ear?”

You gasp “Yes!” Your _minds_ are on _one level_. You’re overjoyed he sees what you were getting at, and he’s overjoyed he got it right. “Okay but wait a minute what did you say about Hader liking—“ 

“Anyways!” He stands, “Bill said nothing about _staying_ after five. And I know for a fact that _you have_ a project to be working on.”

“Okay but—!” He towers over you, his smile mischievous because _he knows just what he’s doing keeping you on edge like this_. He puts on his jacket and jumps his shoulders to get it sat right on his back.

You begrudgingly gather your things and meet him at the door. He holds it open and bows like a gentleman as you make your way outside. 

It’s cold, as expected. But, unexpectedly, you forgot you’d be _walking_ —

Mulaney jingles his keys. “He _also_ mentioned he sometimes offers to drive—?” 

No point in letting him finish. You snap your fingers at his keys and skip past him. Mulaney chuckles, tongue to cheek.

There is a mutual agreement that _‘I Will Survive’_ by Gloria Gaynor would be great for the drive.

* * *

As per your initial agreement, you come in the next morning with a coffee for you, and a green tea for him. You jiggle it around his face until you get his attention, then with coffee in your cheeks you hum something like “You’re welcome” in response to his surprised “Oh, thank you!” 

Behind you comes _Pete_. 

He came along to Starbucks and declined your offer to get him something. He’s a strong-stepper, and when he comes in from the hallway’s carpet to the classroom’s hard-flooring, you hear it. You wave at Mulaney to get his attention but his eyes are already on the person in question. He points when Pete’s back is turned, mouths ‘Pete?’ And you, in the middle of a gulp, give a thumbs up.

Mulaney nods. _He gets it._

_This just might be a fun week._


	15. We Got A Letter *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So... the newest chapter was amazing, loved iiiit. Love it aaaall! But to answer the whole what they were to text about if they were to text I have a small suggestion. Something simple might just be that she tells hader that she’s met Mulaney and questioning him (playfully) if it really was worth it mentioning the NyQuil thing. Also btw idk if I’ll be writing anytime again but I’m new so.... could I pick 🤷🏻♀️ as my “anon emoji”?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you 🤷🏻♀️anon, welcome to the family! I would also like to thank 🐝anon for their (as always) wonderful ideas! Takes place Tuesday Night, the night after part 8 ends.

Sat up in bed, phone in hand, your table-light casting your bed in an orange glow, you type—

**You:** So…

And Hader, hunched over his hotel room’s complimentary _mini-bar_ , chokes. He swallows hard and sets his drink down.

**You:** Mu-la-ney….Did you really have to tell him about the NyQuil thing?

He chokes again, this time from laughter.

**Hader:** Yes

**You:** Is it because he used to snort coke?

**Hader:** No?

**You:** It’s okay he told us directly

**Hader:** Then yeah

**You:** 🙄 ****

**You:** He’s a pretty cool guy, not gonna lie

**You:** Taron’s in love with him, btw. Kinda forgot Mulaney’s a weird frat legend.

**Hader:** Oh yeah, major hit back in the day

You roll your eyes and smile.

**You:** Stop staying that. It makes you sound old.

**You:** And don’t say you are, you’re like in your 40s at most.

He’s impressed….Well, impressed with himself really. He wouldn’t have guessed ‘ _at most’_ personally. He hesitates before replying.

**Hader:** At most? Well how about at least?

Is it the drink, his dinner, or a mix of guilt and disgust sitting in his stomach just for asking.

**You:** Like mid 30s

**Hader:** You’re flattering me

**You:** Almost as much as you flatter me. Mulaney said you like me 😊

His throat catches his breath, chokes it off as his cheeks grow flushed.

One thought — _he is going to_ ** _murder_** _John._

Busy knocking his knuckles against the side of his head for even _bothering_ to trust Mulaney with the information he wrote about you, Hader doesn’t bother explaining himself. No point in stumbling over typed-words, it’ll only make it worse. But then again, what he wrote was just him being cautious about the wellbeing of a student, wasn’t it?

**You:** I’d still have guessed you hated my guts for causing a ruckus in class no matter how many times we’d get coffee together

And, perhaps relieved…he sighs.

Making matters _almost_ worse, you type, “probably only like me cause I help you with grading anyways,” the high of the conversation giving you the courage to tease. You add — 🥺 — for not-so-good measure….then promptly back-space. He definitely doesn’t need to be dealing with your self-deprecation right now.

**Hader:** Please say he didn’t mention the rest of the letter

You perk. Well, there were certainly _sub-notes_ , but there was no _letter_.

**You:** Letter?

Hader drops his head and groans, _“Dammit.”_

**Hader:** You know what, never mind

**You:** I mean I knew about the notes but a letter? Oo la la

**Hader:** I can’t

**Hader:** Right now

His stomach’s still heavy and getting heavier, tickling with… _something_. Still, he doesn’t know if it’s booze, or the dodgy concierge buffet he stuffed his face with tonight, or the fact that he’s having this conversation with _you_. And then—

**You:** 😚

_A kiss,_ or something. He holds his head up with his hand, and squishes his cheek to hide his smile.

**Hader:** Goodnight

He types, letting go a fluttery breath.

**You:** Ha! Sleep well, dork

**You:** You already know what I’m asking tomorrow 👀


	16. Cursed Image *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Just a thought, but imagine Y/n is up at 4 am and she sends Bill some random cursed image" ~ Anon

It’s four AM. 

You send an image to the group chat — one you meant to send before you fell asleep, one that from the moment you wake up is still stuck on your mind. In your sleepy haze you find it in your photo library. It moves too, or maybe your tired eyes are wonky. So you gather it, and press send. No explanation is needed. No explanation is ever needed for shit-posting.

You slip your phone off to the side and squeeze your pillow tight, smush your cheek against the softness and feel the heavy weight of sleep just starting to settle when your phone _buzzes_.

Admittedly elated, eager to rebel against your body, you blindly reach, flop onto your back, and read: 

_“….do you want a better grade…? Or…?”_

You close your eyes tight, rub your palm against them, then read again, the following image the only thing sent at four in the morning: 

And above that is a name — **Prof. Hader** 🍷

Wait a minute…that’s….not right? Is it? You squint, and curse _“Fuck,”_ before you groan and slap yourself in the face. That’s all you can do, to be fair.

How, you wonder (already knowing the answer is your sleepy haze), _could you have fucked up so badly?_

**You:** Oh no

You say. And add —

**You:** Oh no oh fuck

— for extra emphasis that you are so, **_so_ sorry. **

**You:** Oh wait no thats bad too I’m so sorry

**You:** Wrong number

**You:** Please don’t ask, there is no explanation

**Hader:** Can I ask why you have that in your phone

**You:** what did I just say

**Hader:** How is It relevant to a different conversation

**Hader:** never mind

**You:** yeah that’s probably for the best

You press your phone to your chest, breathing hard, but quiet. You take a peek, no rolling three dots to hypnotize you while you wait for a response. Your heart breaks a bit…you kind of want the uh… _anguish_ that comes with waiting. But—

**You** : Wait a minute, it’s four in the morning, go to bed

**Hader:** You go to bed

**You:** I just woke up what are you doing up

**Hader:** Did you just wake up to send that

**You:** Hey

**You:** Watch it

**Hader:** Go to sleep

**You:** Don’t tell me what to do. I told you first, so go to bed

**Hader** : Go

**Hader:** To

**Hader:** Sleep

**You:** Well I can’t go to bed because you’re texting me

**Hader:** Okay then I’ll stop. Goodnight

With a pout, you scroll through your photos fast enough to give your poor finger rug-burn….

**You:** Can you read that

**Hader:** Yes, I can read that

**Hader:** Y/n, why do you have that

**You:** Do you really think I have an answer

**Hader:** Well

**Hader:** No

**You:** Just because you’ll stop texting me doesn’t mean you’ll be sleeping. So go to sleep.

**Hader:** You know, there’s no way for you to make sure I’m sleeping

**You:** Pinkie promise me you’ll go to sleep then

**Hader:** Y/n

**You:** And if you break it I’ll be genuinely upset

**Hader:** ….If I go to sleep will you go to sleep right now

**You:** Yes. So c’mon. *pinkie promise*

Hader sighs, but smiles, lips pulled in tight.

**Hader:** *pinkie promise*

**You:** ok night night! 😊

The three dots roll in and out. Watching them come then leave is _agony_. You pout, bite your lip, wonder for a good minute or so what could be taking him so long. Then the dots stop.

**Hader:** Goodnight Y/n. Sleep tight.

Your heart _also_ stops.


	17. And That's The Tea *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What if.... The reader texts Bill about how she’s been getting green tea for Mulaney just to get a reaction/rise out of him? 🤔 (And may I be added to the tag list please? 😊)" ~ misscupcake1087

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This occurs on Wednesday night the week Hader’s gone, follows “cursed image.” Also, thank you both for this lovely text-drabble. If you’ve binged as many Bill Hader interviews as I have, you’ll get the stories Y/n mentions ;)

You send Hader a pic of you and Mulaney in his car. You’re holding a Starbucks drink, Mulaney’s holding his green tea. Your smiles are wide, you half-way out of frame with your arm stretched as far as you could manage, and Mulaney smiling with his jaw entirely dropped. You look like doofuses.

But with that, Hader feels a _scheme_ coming.

**Hader:** Oh no, what is that

**You:** Me and my new bestie ✌️😘

But hey, you and your “new bestie” are in your “new bestie”s car like he told Mulaney to expect so…

**Hader:** Well at least he’s following the rules

**You:** Heh, and we came up with a few of our own

**Hader:** Did you now?

**You:** Yup! 😊 That’s why I’ve spent $30 this week on his green tea alone. You give tea, you get tea!

**Hader:** Wait. Is tea like gossip or something

**You:** Yup! Anyways! 😙

**Hader:** No no, don’t listen to a thing he says

**Hader:** He was barely conscious the entirety of our college years

**You:** Oh he gives me stories about himself for free lol

**Hader:** Oh no

**You:** Nah, we’re not jumping into that yet. But seriously, how are you? How’s the conference? Is it boring? Is doing professor stuff boring?

**Hader:** Eh, it’s alright.

**You:** Okay but is it boring?

**Hader:** Very

**You:** Why’d you even go then?

**Hader:** I’m not really sure anymore. Your class always gives me a lot more to think about than this.

**You:** Well we’ll be here when you get back☺️

Hader smiles and mumbles “Yeah…”

**You:** Anyways what’s your opinion on shopping carts?

Giggling like mad, you hold your phone to your chest so you can focus on the image again. Now get this — Mulaney said that _‘Bill’_ once got so hammered he rode down a hill in a stolen shopping cart. You were still smiling like a goof at the visual of Mulaney, also drunk, begging Bill all slurred and sleepy to _not_ ride down the hill. It wasn’t _as_ fun when you learned Bill fell (of course) and split his chin open when he got to the bottom… _but it was still pretty fun_.

**Hader:** That was ONE time

**You:** Okay well how do you feel about mattresses? Do you prefer them dingy? And found in the alley?

Mulaney was clearly having trouble not laughing as he recited a tale Bill once _proudly_ told him — the tale of when he brought a girl _and_ a mattress for them to sleep on when they roomed together one year.

**Hader:** Goodnight

**You:** Wait wait wait a minute, please

**Hader:** What

**You:** Do you want a POT

**Hader:** Goodbye

**You:** Or a BOWL

**Hader:** Goodnight Y/n

**You:** 😂Night night


	18. Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> halloween! and other stuff…

You’re not disappointed to see Mulaney. You could say you’re happy, actually. But, you groan, and you aren’t quiet. You leave the room to collect yourself, then whirl back in with _caramel-latte_ in hand and a smile. Mulaney waltzes over from his desk, hands deep in his slacks’ pockets.

“Hello.” He wiggles his brows. “Who were _you_ expecting?”

You stretch him the uh… _”Caramel latte?”_ _Face scrunched, smile apologetic._

Surprised, “Well don’t mind if I do.” He takes a whiff of the steam fluttering out of the cap. “You certainly didn’t expect _me_ , did you? You were expecting…” he snaps his fingers into a point at you. _“Hader…Weren’t you?”_

You sneak past him with a grimace. _“Yup…”_

“He flies in _tonight_. _In case you’re_ _wondering.”_

Sitting down, you give him a thumbs up. It aches you to manage one.

* * *

Night, 8:15 — _Halloween_.

And no, you are are not a sexy bunny.

You are _not_ , a sexy bunny.

On the contrary, you are _Regina George_ from the 2004 hit movie _“Mean Girls”_ dressed _as_ a sexy bunny. Different things. Saoirse offered up a black skirt in case you didn’t fancy having your thighs out.

Walking into this year’s chosen frat-house, your head is high, fluffy, sulked-lined bunny ears bouncing atop your head. Saoirse’s by your side in her all-leather get-up, cheetah ears on _point_ (the Gretchen to your Regina), and behind you is Pete _managing_ grey ‘kitty’ ears with the paint on his nose _neat_ , and a… _dress_ , perhaps. It’s black linen around his core with basically a big silver Christmas bow. He makes a wonderful Karen. He would have the shoes to match if he could find silver thigh-high boots in his size. But alas…

Doesn’t matter — _doesn’t matter._ You are here to party…

And on that note your phone chimes. You check—

 **Hader:** Stay safe tonight

and head straight to the kitchen, drown that giddy feeling with drunkenness. This _feeling_. Is it joy? Happiness? No, it’s the good feeling of being on someone’s mind and the _embarrassment_ of being on someone’s mind. Are they equals? Working together? Or are they fighting to overwhelm the other?

Tongue to cheek, you hand your phone to Saoirse. She zips it away in her cute little backpack.

 _Now_ it’s time to party.

* * *

Timothée arrives not as a poet or director or famous figure like you bet on, and not as himself, but as a narcissist. So that is to say he did _come dressed as himself._ Additionally, he boasts the _genius_. You find Taron in the crowd, lock your elbows and _Ooo_ at his getup — _Connor from_ _Detroit: Become Human_. He locked himself in your living room a certain set of weeks when he found the time to, played that game every which way. He brought his own Playstation too.

You go along with the party’s vibrations, find yourself dancing to the beat that shakes the whole house.

A drink or two later and _“Hi, It’s Me”_ by Ashnikko starts playing, Taron there to lip-sync with you.

Rolling your head, fingers twirling by your temples — **_“_** _When_ _I’m with you I have amnesia, got me without a mind_ _!_ _My stupid brain thinks that I need you, misleads me all the time_ _!”_ You tap your forehead, lean into Taron who puts his hand on his chin, obnoxious, playful, knowing. With drink in hand you do a twirl, bob your head to the beat as Taron dances to back you up, mouthing the words in-between drinks. He raises his hands to the ceiling, pays no attention to his beer spilling down his hand.

 _“_ _It’s like I need a babysitter, someone to come and get me_ _!_ _‘Cause I forget the crazy shit, the littlest things impress me_ _._ _Mediocre in the bed_ _—“_ you nudge Taron with your elbow, smiling cheekily _“—_ _my bestie would never let me_ _. Ugh_ _, I did it again_ _!”_

You sway, bounce your wrists over your head, sip your drink when you get the chance as Taron mouths the pre-chorus: _“_ _I slip up, I text you, I forget_ _, that_ _you were so, so disrespectful_ _—“_ you put a warm hand to your heart _“—_ _I did what I said that I wouldn’t_ _._ _Why am I a sucker for a fuckboy’s freckles?_ _”_

You sing the chorus together: _“_ _Hi, it’s me, back again_ _, h_ _ere to remind you that he’s not worth it_ _!_ _Hi, it’s me, your best friend_ _, t_ _ake his old t-shirt off and burn it_ _!”_

Lost in the dance, the rhythmic beat of frat-boys shouting _“Repeat after me, ‘I’m over it,’ yeah we’re so over, over—“_ sings like a lullaby, a _melody_ despite how the beat knocks a tight knot into your head.

There’s a tap on your shoulder. Bobbing your head to the beat, you look and it’s Saoirse. She smiles nervous, sorry for the interruption, only for you to give a pleasant, flushed grin.

“Saoirse! What’s good!” You cry and grasp her shoulder.

 _There._ She nods to the corner of the room, a cluster of people with those ‘lazy’ type of costumes _—_ blank shirts with sharpie-scrawled explanations smack-dab in the middle of them and dollar-store animal ears and buttons attached to their person.

 _“Oo la la,”_ you coo, pushing her near them. “Go have fun!” She blushes, flattered, but grabs your wrist and yanks you over there with her.

You get lost on your way there, giving quick _‘_ _thank youuu’s_ to those complimenting your outfit and handing out your own. You chirp _“looove that_ _!_ _”_ as you point outfits up and down. The beat’s wired your brain. You don’t listen to anybody’s names, and only engage outside of your self-made routine when Pete comes over.

Now, Pete doesn’t dance. He holds his drink and (barely) bobs his head. But he obliges when you grab his free and yank it to get him to ‘dance’ with you as “STUPID” (another piece of Ashnikko’s) comes on.

You’re not… _sure_ when exactly you had the time to remember the lyrics! Oh well!

There’s another tap on your shoulder. You turn, meet the face of a guy only vaguely familiar, moderately handsome, as handsome as factory-packaged frat-guys come.

He asks “Hey, aren’t I gonna get your number?”

Honest to God, _maybe_ you told him you would. At some point you _think_ you squeezed some biceps a little too hard, maybe brushed some egos a little too pretty too. Swore most of that was Pete but you get flirty and giddy when you drink. You’re opposed to saying you’re _drunk_ , purely on the merit that it’s the _dancing_ (so far) that has moved you to be so disenchanted with everything.

But yeah, you’re ‘probably’ drunk.

Time? The clock over the living room’s TV is too blurry. Who knows how many minutes have passed since you started tossing.

You shrug, cheeks puffed “I don’t even know who you are!” You lean forward and swipe your finger across his chest, solo-cup bumping against his shirt. “And I do not _care.”_ You giggle, shrugging as you move back from him, still dancing. You smirk at him, teeth showing, eyes squinted. You look like, _and perhaps, are_ , a mischievous little shit.

Nothing could get him angrier!

He scoffs and mumbles under his breath, watches his drink twirl in his cup. He doesn’t hide the gesture, mouths something and cuts himself off with an elongated groan as he waves you off. Because, you see, _he’s kind_ , not the one to be so crude as to _say it out loud_. A gentle-man doesn’t try to hurt _feelings_.

You’re not right, but you can’t help and hear _‘Chad’_ as his name when you think back to it.

He looks exactly as one would expect him to.

“I’m sorry…what was that?” You slur with an aching smile.

He pops his shoulders up, stood tall. You raise your chin, not to be seen with a morsel of doubt, fear, discomfort. It could be you talking, it could be the beer, could be the absolute high-horse your confidence sits on with you wearing this get-up. Could be anything, but you know no fear.

“I _said_ ,” He looks off as though wondering to say it, “are you saving yourself for that _professor of_ yours, or something?”

Your smirk twitches.

You don’t really…get it. You give a giggle, strained, uncertain, wispy.

That was sudden….You, especially recently, haven’t been spending _that_ much time with him. Not like anybody really notices…do they? And second of all, you don’t even _know_ who this guy is so how does he know you?

He huffs through his nose. “Seems like the type to do that.”

“Do _what_?” You grit.

Eyes linger. Not too many, but enough…ignore them — you’ll deal with anyone who has a word to say later. You’ll drive them into the ground with the heel of your boot if they don’t have the audacity to speak directly to you.

“You know what,” he spits.

“No.” You flutter your eyes, and for a moment, you’re gentle. “No, I _really_ don’t know what. Please, do tell me, _Chad_ ,” and _that_ sharpens your scowl. He winces at the name. You get more in his face, looking up at him all pouty, doe eyes in place. “C’mon, _Chad_ , what were you going to say?”

“C’mon…” He sighs. Apologetic, almost; pitiful for you, _almost_. “You’re like the Brazzers definition of a _teacher’s pet.”_ He flicks your bunny-ears. “You don’t have to _hide it.”_

You crush your cup, and your drink bursts out of its sharp corners where the plastic’s split and _pinches_. It’s sticky on your palm, dripping down to the floor. You can’t see yourself seething, but Taron can feel the warmth of your rapid breathing from across the room where he stands in the doorway, holding two drinks. He pushes through.

You’re flushed. Your costume is no longer _cute_.

“Woah, woah!” Taron gets through, hands his drinks to two in the crowd.

You merely twitch a brow, coming up with chin raised and arms crossed.

But then, tears rush in. You blink up, rapidly, _quick_ to forget they ever happened, surprised even…

You mutter _“Fuck…?”_ Nobody hears you.

Poor lighting from the twirling ceiling-fan has you confident enough to look up without worry of your pink eyes and flushed cheeks being picked on.

“The _fuck’s_ going on?” Taron challenges.

Saoirse’s smiling wide. Is she excited for drama, is she nervous? Scared, even? All three? She hides behind you, her looks off-putting, the result of nerves regardless. Her fingers curl over your shoulder, face peeking past you as she cowers. And behind her comes Pete, who holds your free shoulder and settles himself as he checks out the scene.

Timothée gives a groan _(“okay,”)_ winded, knowing what _might_ erupt and already heading to the door. He holds onto the frame. It’s not too far; he gets a good view but it’s a nice place to avoid being provoked. Saoirse skips to him when she gets a chance, head dipped and dodging low through the crowd.

“Yeah,” Pete says, calm. He throws his hand on your head, elbow on your shoulder. “What’s goin’ on?”

But you feel his tension.

 _Now_ you smile, the sight of your two boys stood protectively. You purr, “He called me a _teacher’s pet_.”

Taron cackles. He looks at you, and back around at Chad. “Oh…no no _no_ , you did _not_ imply what I _think_ you did. Cause if you _did_ …” Chin to his chest, he steps forward, fists clenched, “We’re going to have a problem.” He holds his arms out, _beckons, dares_ for Chad to go ahead and _do it_ — _fight him_. Yet he doesn’t. He clenches his jaw and stands down, glares at you, Pete, Taron. He bumps his shoulder into Taron’s when trying to pass, but Taron’s quick to hold onto it and push him back. “You didn’t answer me, _buddy_. Did you _mean_ something by that, or are you saying she’s a wonderful, _hard-working_ student.”

Chad grunts, _“Something like that.”_

You groan and paw at Taron’s shoulder, pulling him along just for the sake of getting out of this asshole’s vicinity. Taron shrugs you off, then you get a stronger grip and force him to look at you. “Don’t waste your time on a Chad,” you soothe him, glaring at the boy in question before pulling Taron to where Timothée and Saoirse stand in the door-way. Pete lingers, fists clenched, ready to beat his ass while Chad’s none-the-wiser to the guy wearing _something_ like a dress.

You hold the door for one another — Timothée for Saoirse, Saoirse for you, you for Taron, Taron for Pete.

“I mean you can _stay_ if you want,” you mutter to Taron.

“Nah,” he nods forward, urges you to keep walking. “Bunch of assholes anyways, not our first scuffle.” He turns and flips of the house. Timothée and Pete follow, Pete flamboyant about it, Timothée giving two fuck-you’s, Saoirse shy about it, and you give an over-the-shoulder flip of the bird.

But the heat’s worn off.

You huff and rub your arms.

“Can I borrow your jacket?” You ask Taron. He shuffles out of it and shoves it in your chest, eyes rolling. You clutch it tight and rest your head on his shoulder as you mouth _“thank you,”_ before you put it on and walk.

You walk to the quad, alcohol wearing off, and sit on a bench under a tree with Saoirse’s head in your lap as she nibbles on chips she smuggled out of the party. She gives you her backpack when you ask for some, and aha — your phone. You unlock it and there it is, the message from Hader, sent right before you got to drinking.

You groan and drop you head, let the tips of your bunny-ears block Saoirse’s vision. She whines and as you let your arm hang limp, screen facing the floor, she squeals and snatches your phone. You don’t bother taking it back and let her read. She cackles, purses her lips, and lets out a giddy _“OoOooH!”_

_“Stooop.”_

Saoirse pouts. “He told you to ‘stay safe!!!’” And holds her fluttering heart.

You scoff “Yeah,” teeth clenched. _“Because he doesn’t want me to end up drunk at his door again_.”

Taron asks “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Saoirse sits up and gives the phone to Taron who sits on the other side of Pete. Timothée’s comfy on the bench’s armrest. He teeters in and out of a stable position.

“Guys, it’s nothing, really.”

Taron, wielder of your password, knows just where to go — your most recent text-conversation. He hums, delighted.

You hunch over your stomach, hand pressed tight where a brew of butterflies is cooking, and cover up your face.

“Aw…” Taron admits, almost sadly.

He hands the phone to Pete, who gives a look then tosses it in your lap. “Heh, almost like that guy was onto something,” he teases.

“Uck, _please_ don’t even joke about that.”

“What?!” Pete chuckles. “I’m-I’m not meaning it to be _gross_. Just that you two like…work together.” He throws his arm over the back of the bench.

Face scrunched, you look at him. “Huh?”

“Like, he cares about you — that’s all I’m sayin’!”

“Yeah…” Taron sighs. “Really would work, honestly.”

You groan and stand up to pace in front of them. “But that’s—we’re not—“

“Are you _sure_ …?” Saoirse giggles. You cut her off, glare sharp.

 _“Yes,”_ you say like a curse _. You look into the darkness, look for anybody lurking._ “That’s…weird. And he’d like, get fired so if you all could just _not_ joke about it. The school would probably have to investigate if they _really_ thought something…”

Pete chokes on a laugh. “Okay but—“ his voice is nasally, the cold night getting to him and his brittle costume, “We’re not really joking. We’re like, deadass.” He gulps, tries to gage your emotional stability. “We’re serious…you’d be cute together.”

Taron points to Pete — ( _“he’s got a point”)._

Stuck, you shudder and shake your head at the ground. The thought…it gives you… _feelings_. It doesn’t disturb you — no, not really. Not the thought _itself_ — goodness, _certainly not him_ , but, you hug yourself, pick at your lips, pace steadily. 

“Yeah like…?” Saoirse throws her legs off Pete’s lap. “He’s texted you every night so far?” Timothée looks off with pursed lips.

“Ugh. _I’m_ the one who texts him.” You poke your chest. _“Me, I start it.”_

“But!” She waves a finger, “he answers!”

Taron leans back and smiles, proud. “And, didn’t you _literally_ go on a date?”

“ _You_ orchestrated that!”

“Did I?” He smirks, furrows his eyebrows.

“That-that wasn’t supposed to be just us!”

Timothée rests his arms on his knees, his feet supported on a slim part of the bench. “But you stayed and had dinner anyway…?”

“Because we were hungry and we would have wasted our time getting ready! Look, everybody— can everybody just-just _shut up?_ Geez! It’s—“ you grunt and clutch your chest, “—like that’s just fucking weird that you all think that because he’s like _twice_ my age and he’s my fucking teacher and yeah, _maybe_ if I wouldn’t be nuking his entire job and livelihood I would be _down with_ that but like just the thought of even accidentally doing that is really fucking scary and you’re all legit all making me panicky and it-it’s not- _it won’t happen_ so can you all _shut up?!”_

They do. They shut right up.

Taron squints. “But hypothetically…?”

You sigh, “Sure, _yes_.”

Your breath catches up.

“Anyways…” You turn to feel the breeze, to bask in it, to watch the moonlight with twisted lips as you think on it. Not like a different direction does much for privacy but it’s enough to trick your psyche. That tight hand around your heart is no longer looming. It loosens, lets you take a nice, deep breath – 

“…..Uh…. _Hi_?”

You bite your lip. It almost bleeds.

You know, despite this being the absolute worst fucking time for him to show up — _Hader’s_ a real fucking _dork_ every time he waves a little. A tiny wave, scared, hesitant. He clears his throat, tugs at his collar. He’s wearing his satchel-bag, filled with papers he just picked up from class so he can get a smooth start tomorrow. 

_God, why couldn’t he have just had a rough-start tomorrow_?

You blink, “Hi,” trying to gage the distance between where you stand now and where his building is. How long did it take for him to get over here, how likely could you have avoided screaming your head off in front of him? Could he even _hear_ you? Was there enough time for him to just… _turn around?_ Avoid this?

“Just uh….” he raises his brows, gives your friends a smile. “Saw you guys and thought I’d say hi. Well, more cause I was uhm…well, this is my path and I was just picking up some things for tomorrow and uhh…saw you—” He points, “Pete, _what_ are you dressed as?”

Pete, jaw dropped, the rest of your gang equally flustered, looks down at himself. “Oh. I’m Karen. From Mean Girls.”

Hader hums.

“And she’s Gretchen,” thumb pointed at Saoirse, “And Y/n’s Regina George as a sexy bunny.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, lean forward with your head limp, shutting down.

“Ah…?” Hader hums, perhaps impressed? “Anyways…” shuffling back, he tries to get a look at your face. He doesn’t _whisper_ , but he’s quiet. The wind whistles with him. “Are you okay?”

“Yup—yeah,” you grunt, shake your head out, get your thoughts in order. “I’m great.” You meet him with a smile. It’s strained. “Glad you’re back.”

Hader looks past you, sucks his lips in and sighs. “Looks like they’re not so glad…”

Nose scrunched, you look back.

Your friends scatter, clumsily grabbing their things, barely working together in their hurry to leave you — leave _this_. You clench your jaw, let it happen, your blood and stomach bubbling now.

“Aren’t you…with them?” Hader asks, your friends urging each other to hurry up (to give you two some _time_ together) as they run the other direction.

Eyes nowhere, you face him.

“Sorry I, heh, didn’t mean to keep you guys if you _do_ have somewhere to be, just wanted to say hi is all.”

“Nope.” You shake your head, lips tight. “They’re just drunk. And I—“ you sigh, _“—am going home.”_ You turn swiftly. Hader grabs your wrist. It’s only for a second. You look, a bit shocked (a pleasant shock), and he’s already torn himself away and begun berating himself internally for being so inappropriate.

“Sorry just ehm—“ he clears his throat “—I can give you a ride, you know, it’s no problem.”

“I’m good.” You try but can’t bring yourself to turn away.

“Actually,” you sigh, “I would appreciate that,” head down, ashamed for ever dismissing him.

He admits he gets a smile at it, but wipes it away and nods for you to come and follow him. You still wear Taron’s coat from his costume.

(It’s the only reason why Hader hasn’t handed his own coat off. Otherwise, he would. Probably.)

Walking to the car is quiet. You’re shivering from cold sweat that comes with every one of his visible, shaky breaths and how your stomach twists at it, or how it twists when you accidentally bump against him. You’re careful not to huddle this time. He notices.

Driving in the car is also quiet. You slip into the passengers seat, and neither of you think to plug in the aux cord. The traffic does enough to deal with the silence.

“So, uh…” he mutters some time into the ride. He adjusts his sitting, sits straight; as proper and mechanical and packaged as he can. He clears his throat. “Did you guys just…walk _around_ or was there a party?”

You tug Taron’s coat sleeves past your fingertips. “Party.”

“Ah….how was it?”

“It was fine,” you force. “We left early. Some guy was being an asshole.”

He eyes you nervously. “An ass? Like…in what way?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing. Just said some shit is all. Doesn’t matter — Taron almost beat him up for me anyways but he didn’t and I’ll probably never speak to whoever it was so it doesn’t matter.”

“Oh…”

You bite your lip, pick at them, watch the lights through the window.

Hader inhales sharply—“ _Hey_ so nothing _else_ happened right, he just _said_ stuff… _right_?”

“Yes,” you insist with a bite. But his tone is…quiet. You look at him, observe how tense he is. “Yeah,” you try again, just as quiet, reassuring even. “Yeah yeah, nothing happened. I’m fine. _Honest_.”

He nods.

Ride’s silent again till you get to the curb of your apartment. You open your door and kick it the rest of the way open, stumble out of the car before Hader even gets the chance to decide if he even wants to park there.

“Hey wait, do you want me to—?” He gestures inside, sat up with his hand hovered over his buckle.

You lean into the car, hold the door open. “No no, I think I’m uhhh…” you look down at yourself, “I’m alright. Thank you….for like, _this._ ”

“No problem…uhm, goodnight.”

You twist your lips. Your eyes look particularly sparkly in this dim light. “Goodnight,” and close the car door.

You walk, and hear him clear his throat harsh. It’s louder than the soles of your shoes. You turn back, hug yourself tight with Taron jacket still on as Hader leans into the passengers side of the car, window rolled down.

“Just uh, don’t come in tomorrow.”

“What?” You whine, “Why?”

“Make it an early night. Just to like, unwind.”

You pout but suppose, ‘okay.’

“Oh…alright. Thanks…? But what about—“

“Don’t worry about it.” He smiles down at himself. He won’t look at you, he can’t bring himself to.

“Okay….well, goodnight.”

Hader chokes up “Night.”

You’re inside your building when he mumbles, “Sleep tight….”


	19. You're Fucked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lots of time to realize you’re fucked

How much significance can a person fit in one letter. Was there even a letter to begin with? Or was Hader’s phrasing weird? He could have been talking about the sub-notes after all, the connotation accidentally giving a little extra personal flair…

Choice beverage, paper, and pen at your desk with some practice scribbles on a sticky-pad (because you haven’t tested your long-term handwriting in God knows how long) you start your own (after much in-bed thought being sent home early and all) with, of course:

_Dear Mr. Hader,_

It feels wrong and _is_ wrong, so, scratch that. This page will turn into scrap paper for practice doodling.

_Dear Professor Hader,_

So formal, professional. You don’t like it. Just to see (and that’s all, truly) you write:

_Dear Bill,_

It feels _naughty_. Scandalous and worth hiding as much as merging your names in the margins of class notes and framing the variants with hearts.

Mrs. Y/n Hader, Mrs. Y/n Y/l/n-Hader, Mrs. Y/n Hader-Y/l/n.

Just for fun….with a dose of mild disgust.

You think trying it out would feel as guiltless as simply thinking about it; guilty in the way where there’s just enough pride in engaging with the forbidden that butterflies take over, but rather the guilt twists those butterflies into something else. You tear your pen across your paper, scribble circles of ink through the evidence, crumble it to pieces, and toss it into the garbage with a “nope,” and a sigh.

It’s incriminating, but it’s gone now.

Finding the right greeting doesn’t absolve it your thoughts. There is no ‘Dear.’ You read,

_Hader,_

And sigh, subtle, sorrowful, the knowing kind that makes skin crawl; like how Taron says Hader’s name at the start of class. Taron’s steps add to the startle — Hader’s ready to put his hands behind his back like the Dean’s approaching him again for wreaking absolute black-out induced havoc as part of a brief fraternity pact. The sighed name, the click of the tongue, it says _“Well well well,”_ and _“I know something,”_ all in one.

Hader incidentally tucks that letter to Mulaney away under a pile.

It starts with,

_John,_

_First, about Y/n—_

Incriminating in it’s own right.

(Are we talking in the realm of social-suicide or his own moral-integrity if he thinks too hard? He doesn’t want to think about that now.)

He says “Hey, Taron…” through grit teeth. But here’s three by his side — Timothée, Pete, and Saoirse. Hader’s almost _glad_ you’re absent but is equally terrified at the prospect of having to face these four without you as the translator between two worlds.

“Hey, Professor Hader. _Look_ , we would all like to cordially apologize for last night.”

He shrugs. “Uhh, don’t know _why_ but alright?”

Four different reactions: Timothée wonders if they came up here for nothing, Saoirse’s relieved to think they did nothing wrong by you _or_ your Professor, Pete’s indifferent and perhaps content, Taron’s…confused. Blank-faced, lip between his teeth, he just doesn’t _believe_ Hader’s that (deaf and) ignorant.

“Uhm do-do you… _really not_?” Taron squints. The doubt wafts off him, but Hader doesn’t know how to manage it. “Like…” Taron steps up, “You didn’t… _hear_ anything? I mean regardless we kind of dumped Y/n on you when we all ran but—“

Saoirse shushes him, already thinking that’s enough to tell.

Crossing his arms, Hader stretches “I…am not following. You were just a bunch of drunk college kids, alright? No need to apologize. Nobody got hurt or anything.”

“Yeah but, y’know,” Taron bobs his head, “ _kinda_ put you on the spot there.”

“Mmmm…? Did you?”

Hader cleans up his desk, this conversation nothing but background noise, like there isn’t a single reason for him to further question what on _Earth_ Taron is talking about. But Taron has _seen_ Hader be confused, sometimes embarrassingly so. No, this is a _mockery_ of confusion. 

He waves your buddies back and they flock to their desks — Pete like it’s no big deal of course, Timothée with a groan (‘finally,’) Saoirse’s slow to hers, eyeing them because she knows something in Taron is brewing.

Taron smiles (that charming smile, the type so mischievous and sultry enough to get him out of anything) and clutches his bag’s strap. “So, you didn’t hear _anything_ we said?”

“Nope.”

“Like…not even that whole… _thing_ Y/n went on about?”

Harder every second to keep his mouth shut.

“ _Really?_ Not even what she said about _you_?” Taron laughs.

Curiosity has been stirred regardless of if Hader was genuinely clueless, and Taron steps back satisfied a the sight. “Okay,” he smirks. “Well… _then you have nothing to worry about_.”

_Goodness, why did he have to use the word ‘worry.’_

Taron rubs his hands together then skips up to his seat. His heart sinks when he sees you’re not in yours at the front row. Proud of what he’s done, arguably having done you a favor, he thinks _maybe_ you didn’t come in today because the weight of everything they put on you yesterday night mixed with the possibility of Hader _hearing_ everything became to much and…

Oh no. Here in this display of acting before you think, Taron drops his head in his hands — _“I’m a fucking idiot_ _.”_ Though if his tactics and _pushing_ prove to set-up any future scenes between Hader and you and things turn out for the _better_ , he’ll be right there to take the blame. It would be an honor.

If this were high school again and you were writing those same love-hearts in the margin of your geometry homework, you would punch Taron right in the face the second you learned he more or less did the equivalent of telling Hader you, more or less, may be a secret admirer….

_“This is for your own good!” He would say as you shoved him into a locker._

_“You ruined everything!”_ _You would say,_ _forever_ _content with just thinking about something and never going through with it._

_And in a better, far-off universe Taron would be able to prove his statement of ‘this is for your own good’ when you and Hader inevitably got together…But! That will never happen if you both deny there isn’t at least_ **_something_ ** _going on between you._

Hader, biting his lip, thinks he ought to have said he heard everything because _now_ he’s thinking about it. On the note of if he really _didn’t_ hear what you said, he calls himself a—

_“Liar…”_ which you mumble to yourself in response to what you’ve written in his letter.

You scribble it out. Why are you even writing this? You’ll never actually show him. Maybe as like a going-away gift when your class comes to an end. But _God_ is it sappy. “Liar,” you mutter again, scribble harder, tear straight through the segments where you boast your utmost respect for him from the very beginning. Sure you _had it_ (hidden under bundles of quick-witted sarcasm) from the beginning but it was certainly more selective than you being head-over-heels for his curriculum the day you stepped into his classroom. Now _that_ …is ridiculous.

Never-mind this.

It’s just…he told you to stay _home_. And something about that struck a nerve.

You hold your head. Considerate is certainly a word to describe him but you’re not about to go listing things you’ve _noticed_ about him to try and give thanks in a letter he’ll probably think you _cooky_ to have bothered writing to begin with.

Having finished what you needed to do for other classes, and with not much you can work on for his class (his words, “Don’t worry about it.”) you lay in bed upon admitting defeat, hands over your stomach and still thinking up ways to be appreciative. 

How can you tell him _“Thanks for dealing with me and my friends even though we’re_ _little shits?”_

Maybe it also goes far to say it’s special treatment. He tolerated you and Taron before you gave him a reason to like you, gave you extensions too, more than you can count. You hum and bite your lip, wondering if you have ever thanked him.

You could also thank him for the times he’s stalled the beginning of class, or thank him for humoring the jokes you know he had no reason to laugh at.

You lay on your side and tug your blanket over your shoulders. You bring the ends to your waist, bundled tight with the pressure of your thicker-blanket against your backside. You close your eyes, lips twisted tight as you try to will yourself to think of literally anything else right now. You take the liberty (for just a second, to see if it’s worth trying) to pretend the blanket-twists around your waist are something else. You huff, look behind you almost expecting someone. But alas, it’s just a blanket mound. And you calm.

You’ll wake up with a fresh mind and new idea about what you’ll write to him — _if_ you write to him.

But is it weird to use the image of someone else in such an intimate way? You close your eyes tight and forbid yourself with a mantra from fantasizing what you’re on the verge of fantasizing about, but it’s counteractive, pulling you farther from sleep.

So…just accept it, try it out, enjoy the imitation of sleeping in somebody’s arms. You close your eyes with a smile.

Hader opens his with a sigh.

All he asked was _“Where’s Y/n?”_ and Taron (still battling on whether to be quiet or a suggestive) had the nerve to spit:

_“Why?”_ His brows knitted and smile mischievous. _“Why are you asking?”_

Quiet, Hader knows Taron would turn his words into something no matter which route he goes. 

He claps to get the room’s attention and shouts “Okay!” to no response. 

_Usually you’re there going “woo!” or pumping your fist in the air to further rile your classmates up._ _It’s mostly mocking. But_ _not today. He feels like he’s called_ _to_ _a void, and it isn’t comfortable, it isn’t fun._ At least he doesn’t have to worry about why this time.

Worry. Worry, worry, worry, _“don’t worry.”_ Oh man, he’s worrying.

What if you meant what you said last night? He tries instilling disgust in him at the idea of you having those feelings. But trying to stick with it gets his stomach floating just as horribly as he feels he _should_ be feeling right now. 

Catch-22; he tries to feel that uncomfortable feeling, which in itself gives him that uncomfortable feeling, and he gets an extra dose of that uncomfortable feeling for not having it initially. He should’ve have to _tell_ himself to reject that idea, he should just reject it naturally! But it’s all just a hypothetical, really.

Slightly manic, he laughs under his breath and wipes his hand along his jaw.

Waking up from a dream, you give your own. You hold your face and bury your head in your pillow. 

The dream was, as it always should be, blissful. 

But it had such…tooth-rotting imagery only reserved for characters in youtube edits, and you were content with that being the only case where your emotions can get stirred so unbelievably. But in your dream – quick, images came in snippets – you were given your own treatment, a shot at a fantasy.

You groan and get out of bed, try to ignore how it really _was_ satisfying.

_But why couldn’t it have been with someone else?_

Saoirse finds you leaned over the counter and literally beating the images out of your head. You couldn’t have been asleep that long for a dream so short but it’s dark outside now. Only six, creeping toward seven. 

You reflect her scared _“Are you alright?”_ with “I need a walk,” as you yank your coat off the rack and grab your keys.

You’re fast ahead of her, but she’s a trooper. 

This dream wasn’t even a _gift_ , it was a punishment. Your stomach is still twisted and bubbling when you make it to campus. 

The cold helps combat how heated you’ve become. 

Because they weren’t just _visuals_ you saw with him. You felt them.

You worked at a retail store, he was your boss, there were cameos and whatnot. And he was gentle. You can’t remember his words verbatim, the sound too swampy in your ear to decipher it now but even in sleep you felt those butterflies, nestled comfortably. Even now they seem to be staying.

In one snippet you were working together, in the next you were out for lunch, in another one he _hugged_ you and that’s….that’s what really fucks with you. 

When you close your eyes and think about it long enough you can still _feel_ it. 

You plop yourself onto a bench in the quad, Saoirse quiet but still following you. She hasn’t questioned this little fit you’re having. Your head is down and you have to fight with yourself to not think about it again. You wish you wrote it down so you could remember all the details but at the same time you don’t want to have to relive that and acknowledge anything.

“Um…?” Saoirse scoots closer. “Do you want to talk now?”

“No,” you spit, knowing you’ll thank her tomorrow for dealing with your shit.

“Do you want Starbucks?”

You look up, see the shining sign. You nod, then she’s pulling your hand (You forgot gloves, she wears mittens, you’re thankful for the warmth) and dragging you across the field so you can go get Starbucks. You might go a little crazy tonight, get a drink off the secret menu or something. 

Hader _really_ suddenly feels like a caramel latte right now… 

Then, stepping out of his building, he looks to his left and sees you bundled up, layered and hugging yourself with your free arm, the other tangled with Saoirse’s. He stops and huffs, the wind carrying his breath like white smoke. Squinting to make sure it really is you, he raises a hand and waves. You see it when your head’s down, nose attempting to bury itself deeper in the fabrics. But for that and for him (when you see that it’s really him) you pull yourself up, take in a crisp breath courtesy of the chill wind, and wiggle your nose (flushed and bright on the bulb) to heat it up that way instead, to thaw it a bit. The wind has been coming and going tonight, slapping you in the back but caressing you too.

You speed up, arm slipping from Saoirse’s hold, and Hader slows his breathing. He drops his head to get his thoughts in order, and when he looks back up you’ve made it halfway to him. He bothers with meeting you in the next half-way, clutching his bag.

“What are you doing here?” But mostly he thinks it wrong for him to have left so early. If you missed the mark he’d be gone by now, and you’d be left to walk home with the wind.

Saoirse is wondering a lot right now. She takes her time, pulls out her phone and he knows it’s really her when the light shines on her hair blowing across her cheeks. She’s inconspicuous, pretending not to notice, casually pulling up her messages. 

You shrug and bring your shoulders up. “Just uh, just walking.”

“I see that….why didn’t you stay in? Come on, I gave you a whole day.”

You roll your eyes. “What’s so wrong with taking a walk?”

“Nothing. But you were supposed to relax today.”

“And I did!” You insist. He chuckles. Your pep is back, previously hindered by the cold and that dream you refuse to acknowledge so long as you’re in his presence. “But I don’t like keeping still. You would know!”

He hums. “Yeah…Listen uhm,” he points over his shoulder, “do you — _two_ — need a—?”

You shake your head fast enough to crick your neck. “We’re good. Trying to tire myself up some, but thanks.”

“No problem, no problem.” Hader takes a deep breath, also welcoming the wind. “You should head back home. Again.”

“Before, though—“ You hold your hands out. “I really want to apologize about last night.”

He contemplated doing the same thing. But couldn’t bring himself to do it. Didn’t want to throw that on you. Yet, he doesn’t feel like that’s what you’re doing. His brows shoot up and he nods with an “Oh?” eager to see how this will turn out, how it will fair in comparison to Taron’s tortuous ‘apology.’ 

You say it quick to get it over with.

“I don’t really know if you did or didn’t hear and I’m not going to ask if you did because that would make both of us uncomfortable but just know it wasn’t anything in offense and it wasn’t even _bad_ I just, I dunno, you’re a really good professor and you’ve been meaning a lot to me lately which is the only reason why they keep teasing me about it but last night I didn’t shut it down when I was supposed to and you got caught up in the middle of it and I’m sorry for that but we can move on now.” So confident, so swift. You choke, “Right?” 

And Hader smiles. How… _you._

He looks to the dark. “Ahh, don’t worry about it. I’ve learned to take what Taron says with a grain of salt.” 

You laugh, he laughs. 

He grips his bag, you curl your fingers over your sleeves. 

“Just…” He starts. You perk up, watch him look down softly, “If you need someone to talk to or need help with something, you can talk to me. I’m not just here to teach you, I’m here to help you. Okay?”

“Okay…Can I get a hug?” It just comes out, polite but sudden.

He bites his tongue. Then he opens his arms and rolls his wrist – _hurry up_. 

But when you hug him, ignoring how his satchel presses into the corner of your gut, you keep at it, and his grip doesn’t grow faint for a second. You gamble and bury your head deeper, hope he doesn’t notice or mind or think it weird. He doesn’t move but aside from that, neither do you. 

You can’t hear his heartbeat through his layers (He’d say “thank god for that”), and he certainly can’t hear yours either. 

How long would he let you stay there? 

You could test it but, you don’t want to get too courageous. 

You pull away, and his arms are slow to fall. 

“Cya Monday,” you say, giving a wave and backing up. 

He nods. “Get home safe.” 

Hader whistles to himself as he walks to his car. 

Saoirse whistles to lure you out of your silence. You’re ignoring her nudges. She’s probably wondering about Starbucks, about why you’re walking the other way now. 

“Can we just make some hot chocolate when we get home?” You ask.

“Yeah…” she smiles. 

It’s calm.

Then she brings herself in, squeezing your hand and getting close in your face with puckered lips and her hands clasped together to whisper-yell – _“You’ve got a cruuuush!”_ You yank your head away once when she tries to pinch your cheeks, overwhelmed with memories of overburdening adults at family gatherings. 

You would keep fighting and that’d be enough to satisfy her. She would tease harder, keep tugging your cheeks, tickle your ribs, start singing the elementary school _“K-I-S-S-I-N-G”_ song. But you don’t fight it. Because, at this point, there’s no purpose in trying to _deny it._

You (and Hader too as he gets settled in his car) mutter _“Fuck.”_


	20. Cocoa + Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> saoirse opts to get you cocoa instead of coffee. and then some.

Your muscles twitch, fingers pulling your blanket to clip at your chest. 

A faux-fire crackles on your TV, a candle is at your table-side and Saoirse skitters between couch and coffee table with a steaming mug of hot cocoa. She asks “Is hot chocolate fine? Instead of coffee?” and you nod with a tight smile. Now it’s here, and you cup your hands around its core.

It bites at your tongue, sizzles your taste-buds with a pain that’s bittersweet. 

Man, you miss the sun. 

Yet, your skin is tight and cold but your stomach burns with a bubbling swirl. A knot has settled at the top of your head, and pain pinches your temples. You sniffle but the gravelly sound agitates you more, and at a point you let everything fall into as uncomfortable of a place as it cares to.

“Hey,” Saoirse nudges you, “you have to tell me about it sometime,” she states.

She’s right, but with a click of her tongue, she leans back into the cushions and keeps quiet for now

Legs stretched out, she occupies herself by tapping the coffee table with her socked feet, feeling at the carved away wood courtesy of Pete’s picking.

Late, “I know,” you say.

She leans forward, hair stretching down like a curtain past her face. Your eyes dart to hers. Your face holds a dullness to it; nothing shines in your eyes, there’s no aftermath of a good cry, nothing, no glare, no resentment. Your eyes settle on your mug, cocoa swirling with the melted froth of whipped cream on the top.

Wind whirls outside your window, carrying a calmed down snow to your window-screen and giving a _thump_. You tense and groaning you drop your head in your hand. Your mug balances in the other before Saoirse delicately pulls it from you and sets it on the table. You dig both hands in your hair since you can now and she hops up to make sure the window’s shut and locked. 

“I think,” you suck in a sharp breath, “I like him.” 

She giggles. “Like who?” And she whips around with a gasp. “Taron?” She teases. _“Pete?”_

You slowly roll your neck back and give an amused huff through your nose. 

You say “I wish,” picking at your lips and watching the door steady in case of visitors. Taron’s jacket is still on a hook there, hidden under Saoirse’s thick-crusted winter coat.

You avoid looking at her figure as she rounds the coffee table. She lowers herself slowly. You hardly feel the dent she makes in the couch. “Then who?” She asks, incredibly soft and gentle, curious. 

She notes how your head drops forward and your chest gives a violent lurch. 

“I think you can guess,” you laugh.

You snatch your mug and gulp it down, give a satisfied _“Ah,”_ at the burn that raws your throat and makes it feel like you’ve sand-papered your tongue. You rub at your throat, focused on soothing yourself over such a tactile, temporary matter as compared to — 

She gasps “Hader…” sadly, hand moving to her mouth. 

Your breath gives entirely, and in a single one you groan “Yup.” 

The bottom of your mug is stained with chocolate sauce. One shake, eyes angrily glued to the bottom of it and Saoirse swoops it from you to fill it with more. Her feet pad across the floor and when she’s quiet, you give a grunt and lay across the couch. The tapping of her tea-spoon on the inside of the powder-box has your nose scrunching tighter and tighter. 

This coil in your stomach isn’t the sweet kind. 

The sweet kind comes with hearts behind your eyes and gently clammy hands — grip still stable and discomfort ignorable. It comes with those scribbled love-hearts and a slight hope that the recipient will see them. It comes with a bow of your head and fluttery eyes to hide from your bashfulness, or perhaps intentional flirting with a slight caress of their wrist or passing squeeze of their shoulder. 

This coil bounces energetically and unstopping, pressing all over your stomach and you’d much prefer a standard stomach-ache. Because when it snaps it feels like it pierces the butterflies in there and you clamp your hands over your eyes in anger. 

Because _God_ , why out of all of your options did you have to catch feelings for a _teacher?_

That’s a cause for teasing and cringe in high school but the consequences are scarier now. Awkward now.

You squirm thinking about it, curling in on your side and tucking your arms around your waist to counter the involuntary pressure with an intentional push. Saoirse leans over you and sets down your mug. You watch the steam spill out over the top as she sits at your feet. She pulls your calves into her lap and you let her stretch them out. The rest of you though is frighteningly stubborn, deafening you to her further questions.

Taron wouldn’t be a bad match….he lets you put your feet in his lap, lets you crash in his room while he lounges at the foot of his own bed all night, does already throw his arm over your shoulder obnoxiously so with hard claps on your back as you enter every room together, but it makes more _sense_. He’d be able to kiss your forehead and hug you from behind with little question. 

Pete could throw his arm across your shoulders loosely and still manage to keep you tight to his side as you walk together. He’d probably let you buy anything you wanted with little need to get himself a snack and he wouldn’t complain about it! _Now isn’t that a dream…_

Your nose scrunches when thoughts of Hader come along and you twitch before rolling onto your stomach to bury your head under your pillow. 

Saoirse sucks her lips into a flinching smile and pats your calves. 

“There there,” she teases, playfulness blending into a sour hiss because she understands your predicament. 

“Not…” she sighs, “so bad.” She shrugs. 

You’ve stilled. You’ve quieted. 

“Okay maybe!” She drops her hands down on your calves with a hard slap. It stings and you crane your neck to glare at her over your shoulder. Saoirse drops to her knees between the couch and the coffee table, crawling to meet you close-up.

“It’s not that bad,” she whispers, fingers crawling up the side of your couch before poke at your face. You inch away but she grabs your cheeks, thumbs pushing them up tight to squint your eyes, and she shakes her head gently. You aren’t in much power to move. You’re uncomfortably on your stomach against throw pillows and your neck twisted to face her.

“It’s not that bad,” she tries again, voice not even a _whisper_. You catch the sound in the hisses her breath makes as she mouths the words. You watch one hand bring itself to your head. You wonder why until she gives it a hard pet and she’s looking at you with a coy smile. 

“Go to sleep,” she insists strongly, but with a smile. “Whatever this is — sleep it off.” 

You’re frighteningly lured under her authority, and nod faintly.

“Because you know what you have to worry about?”

You raise your brows in worry. 

She slows “Nothing. Don’t worry your pretty little head. Go to sleep and when you wake up we’ll fix this and will never talk about this, do you understand?”

Liking the idea of that, you nod again. Her hands slip from your head and you look her up and down. Your eyes are large, darting around her features and waiting for her to elaborate on the quick, almost disturbing change of character.

But she shuffles back out of this little crook between the coffee table and skips off.

Your limp arm drops over the couch and the back of your hand scratches against the carpet. You crane your neck, waiting for her to come back as you hear a door open. 

You call “What are you doing?” and her response —

“Making your bed!” comes between you pushing yourself to sit on your elbows. 

You roll your eyes, and drop back down, wanting to sleep and get this over with.

* * *

Waking up in your bed doesn’t incite the question of how you got here because it’s no surprise. 

Dragging yourself up and to the living room, Taron’s there to greet you with Pete, Timothée, and Saoirse.

You can only imagine she let them in and you can only further imagine within mere seconds of having your living room’s carpet tickling your feet that they’ve trashed it. 

Taron holds your shoulder and brings you along. You see that it’s clean. Mostly. A little messed up but you can deal with a squashed throw pillow and your throw blanket being half-submerged into the cracks of the lounge chair. 

Eyes unable to bear the light and head heavy, you’re treated like you could imagine a queen. They surround you on the couch with said tangled throw blanket and Pete fluffs the pillow he squashed with some friendly punches. The blanket sits on your shoulders like a cape fit for a queen. Saoirse offers you a new, morning cup of what you go into expecting hot chocolate only to wince and hiss when you’re met with the bitterness of pure black coffee. 

Yummy…

Surprising is all.

She says you’re going to need it.

Ominous or not, you trust her judgment and stomach it without asking for anything you may need. Not even a towel or something to cup around it to protect your quickly sweating palms from the heat. She’s not as kind and cutesy as last night….but not as frightening either.

No, because you need to get out of this slump and you need to face the day headstrong!

You find that the tickling, friendly heat of steam billowing out of your cup appropriately softens your face and maybe even colors your nose enough for an authentic no-makeup look. 

Saoirse shows you a candid she took while you were sipping. You don’t look bad…

Compare your serenity in the image to when she giggles horrendously, snatches your phone, and admits she’s added it to your displayed images on a _Tinder_ profile she’s made you.

Jumping up to snatch it back, you’re met with only a small spill of boiling hot coffee on your lap, and what touches you soaked through the blankie first.

So you sit instead, deal with the mild burn on your thigh, and smile painfully as she prances around your living room reading the description she wrote for your account. Because what else could you do? Chase her and run head-first into the cupboard? Shatter your coffee table? Break a hole in your wall?

Yes. You could do all those things.

And for that reason alone, you sit out. 

You groan “I hate you guys,” with your mug balancing on your lap and your head in your hands. 

Taron’s hand is warm on your back, and rough with two supporting, loving, pats. “We know, champ.” He hops off the couch and Saoirse hands your phone to him. 

“Please…” you pick your head up, sniffling, “Tell me you didn’t tell them.” 

The dread from last night has tattooed itself as dark pits under your eyes. So “Nope,” she didn’t tell them about your little crush. And from her surprised, raised brows…seems she’s telling the truth. 

No _‘Tell us what?’_ come from the boys. Only confused huffs, a little offense too. But you couldn’t care less right now.

Pete’s hand circles your back to replace Taron’s and Timothée crawls his fingers up and down your limp wrist out of boredom. It’s a painfully ticklish sensation all around and in your still nervous stomach too, but you don’t shrug them off. 

Saoirse clears her throat, pride on.

“Two truths….” she sweeps her eyes around the room — Taron, Timothée, you, Pete. “One lie,” slipping off the tip of her tongue like it’s that mischievous, that sly. And she clears her throat, steps forward with a gesturing hand and reads your brand new bio out loud: 

“I play bass in a band you’ve probably never heard of - ” 

You groan “Oh god” and lower your head.

She looks really proud of this one - “I have a kid brother by means I cannot explain.” She raises her brows, almost beckoning for you to say something about it…you can’t.

You mouth “Wow,” instead.

“And…I don’t like true crime shows.”

You smile, “I hate you. All of you. Get out of my house,” and pick yourself up with a finger pointed at the doorway and shaky hand holding your mug.

They erupt into whines and suddenly the knot in your head returns and you feel like a lone babysitter working at a Sunnyside Daycare. 

Taron comes to your side, squeezes your shoulders, and sings “We’re getting you laid!” You drop back to the couch and bury your head in your hand, hide as best as you can while taking desperate gulps of your coffee. 

“Actually we’re taking you to a _bar_ ,” Saoirse corrects.

As if that would be any better. Your head already hurts from emotion, why not add a hangover to that too?

“Why?” You scoff.

Because really this is all very sweet but you dread this day just as much as you dreaded last night. She knows she’s meant to get the message _you’re not interested_. That you’re mad, perhaps. But Saoirse has an eerie ability to hold her smile. Somehow she becomes even more passive-aggressive than you with a simple twitch of her brow. 

She grins. “Why not?”

You bite your lip, and snap “Fine,” with a hiss. 

She breaks into a huge smile. 

One day you might admit how her joy, Pete and Timothée’s congratulatory whoops, and Taron’s clapping almost makes you smile. But for stubbornness’ sake, that day won’t come for a very long time.

You spend the rest of the morning getting hyped up. In the background, Timothée leans over Pete’s lap trying to guess which are the truth, which is the lie on your profile. Saoirse has you settle you in your lounge chair with the blanket still draped over you like a bedridden queen. She comes out with potential outfits for the day pinned up to hangers and draped over her front so you can get the picture. 

Weary and aware that half the bars around campus are more of a biker-ish pub style, you reject anything too flashy or things with too thin of straps. But after taking a dreadfully long sip of (renewed) coffee, you smack your lips and say “Yeah,” for the first time in response to a get-up she proposes. 

Her eyes light up because at last, she’s done it!

The boys’ giggling interrupts her moment.

“Hey!” She snaps (fingers included). “What are you two doing?”

Pete can’t stop giggling over himself to explain. She leans over your coffee table and snatches the phone from them, groans to see they’ve swiped who knows how many profiles. But what’s so funny about it? Pete’s almost bawling, Timothée is bawling with his legs folded under him and stomach hunched over his knees. He’s a literal ball…face pink. 

You roll your eyes. “Please don’t tell me they—” 

Saoirse snaps your phone screen off and holds it close to her chest. Her smile is reassuring. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

You proceed to worry about it for another twenty minutes before what they’ve put on the TV makes you forget all about the situation, and only the impending doom of having to go to a bar remains. 

Then your phone pings. 

Saoirse, still with it in her custody, peeks at the screen.

Her cheeks go pink. 

Her jaw clenches and she glares with absolute fury at Pete and Timothée.

You croak “…What?” From your chair, blanket pulled to your chin.

Soft, _threatening_ , _“Don’t worry about it,”_ she says and violently elbows Pete in the waist as she slips the phone into her pocket. She hops up and you crane your neck to follow her around your living room. 

“Alright! Up!” She locates your hands and yanks you to your feet before tripping you down the hall and to your bedroom. 

You can see she’s made a mess of things with clothes strewn over your bed, but at least she made the bed before she laid everything on it. She presents you the outfit of the evening singing “Taa-daa!” and she pushes it against your chest and pushes _you_ into the bathroom. 

“Are you gonna–?” You try _‘tell me what’s going on?’_

No. She isn’t. 

She closes the door on you and you stand with your nose to the wood, waiting. She skitters across the carpet and to the living room, where you hear silent curses, yelled whispers. 

You knock your head to the door and roll your eyes.

Step a little deeper and enjoy the bathroom’s silence for a while as you get dressed.

It’s almost too silent. You hear your breathing, hear your steps (even when without shoes), feel the stress knot in your head returning at the thought of going out tonight and having ‘a ball’ and having to talk to people and potentially having to text matches on Tinder. 

You come out of the bathroom clearing your throat.

You gesture yourself, asking if you look fine or not. Saoirse claps her hands together and nods like a proud mother would, and Taron the proud father. Pete looks like the suspicious prom date only begrudgingly accepted into your family, and Timothée’s the mildly interested kid brother. 

“Can we go now?”

And go you do. They rush out of your apartment. 

Saoirse even has your jacket over her arm and keys to your door in one hand.

You’re strutting down the side-walk, nerves enough to keep you warm and just giving in to this makes it a _little_ more fun. You have Timothée’s arm locked around one of yours and Pete flailing his hands about telling this story about what happened to him Halloween night. Because apparently despite his stature, he gets around rather quietly… 

Interesting little tale. Though at the end of it you squint at Timothée, he’s squinting at you, and neither of you quite understand Pete’s story after all. 

Saoirse and Taron walk a little farther back. 

She definitely doesn’t show him your phone.

He definitely doesn’t squeal because of whatever may be on it. 

You stop and look back at them. They freeze. You’re onto them.

Lucky for them, Pete entertains you the rest of the way to the bar.

He holds the door for you and Timothée still arm-in-arm. 

It’s nicely lit, warm yellows and oranges, grey-wood accents, classy overall but with the strong smell of classic drinks. Bourbon, whiskey, it all finds your way to your nose and you scrunch your nose up at it, bowing your head to get used to the overwhelming scents while everybody else piles in. 

You recognize some people, all in small groups. 

_“Put Your Head On My Shoulder”_ by Paul Anka plays. 

You sway your head pleasantly surprised by the music taste. You mouth the lyrics to yourself while Saoirse and Taron move along to get a place to gather.

Timothée mouths the fluttery _“Ooo”s_ at the beginning of the number. 

_“Hold me in your arm, baby….”_ you mouth. Interrupted, you push the door open for a group coming up to the property last minute. The first person apart of it catches the door and you give a gentle nod before following your crew. 

_“People say that love’s a game, a game you just can’t win,”_ (Pete and Taron chime in with _“Ba ba ba ba-”_ Timothée still does the angelic background singing) you sing under your breath. Saoirse comes around with menus. You weren’t expecting such a wide variety of entrees (all small, but the alcohol is the priority, remember?) Yet occupy yourself with looking at them.

You, Pete, and Timothée are scrunched on the booth side of the table, and Taron and Saoirse take the chairs opposite you. 

They eye each other, the light of your phone coloring their noses. 

And here’s the thing — they dragged you here tonight for a fun night. They dragged you here to get you out of your slump, to hang out as friends and not focus on anything unnecessary. So, you spot their giggling, and your smile drops. Timothée and Pete slow their mouths. Taron’s still unknowingly mouthing the lyrics. You lean over, stretch your arm across the table and startle them with a sharp knock of your knuckle against the table.

You shout “Hey!” a tad aggressive, but manage your best calm smile when they look at you. “Are you guys going to tell me what’s going on? Or are you going to continue being ominous?”

Saoirse’s lips curl in. 

_“I think Tinder was a bad idea.”_

Your brows knit tight. “Give me the phone.”

Taron hums through his teeth.

You slam your elbow to the table and hold your hand out. Saoirse mouths _‘Sorry’_ as she hands you the phone. She set it on your palm gently as she can, afraid to trigger something already.

You look at your screen, see the already pressed notification that you’ve made a match.

Your brows knight tighter, and you unlock your phone.

“Oh my fucking—” Still holding your phone, you drop your head into Pete’s shoulder. Timothée cranes his neck and sees your screen. He almost _chokes_ , giggling like mad and Pete peeks past your head to see too. He gives a low laugh. Saoirse and Taron do look sorry, _but it is pretty funny._

Now, you’re not completely sure how Tinder works.

But you have gathered that in order for two people to match, both people need to swipe right (or left? Whatever, each person needs to swipe ‘yes’). And you haven’t had your phone all damn day… 

You glare at Saoirse and Taron, showing them the screen.

“This is exactly what we were trying to avoid!” 

You shout, smiling quite manic. 

Saoirse holds her hands in defense because hey “I didn’t swipe right! They did!” They point fingers at Pete and Timothée.

“What!” Pete cackles. “We think you two are _kinda_ cute together.” Timothée shrugs.

You scoff. “You swiped right…on our _teacher!_ ” 

Timothée hiccups from his giggling and grabs your phone. “Professor Hader’s not that bad looking.” 

Everybody hums. At last, you all agree on something… 

You click your tongue. “I…am going to the bathroom.”

“No no no!” Taron shouts as you crawl over Pete to get out of the booth. He throws his arm over his chair and follows you with his voice all the way down the hall. “You didn’t even read his bio!” 

You just need a moment to breathe, is all. Splash some water on your hands, fix your hair, grip the counter and stare into the sink’s drain like it’s an endless abyss (about how you feel about your life at this moment). You go for your phone but one of them still has it. Otherwise, you’d read the bio, probably smile, gaze at his pics for a little bit, then sneak out the back of the building.

But you don’t.

After taking some deep breaths you dust off your hips and head straight to the bar. You ignore them at the booth, lean over and twirl your finger to get the bartender’s attention. He cards you and you can’t even complain, just wanting to avoid looking back at them or avoid letting your voice signal your presence in case they haven’t spotted you yet.

You get your drink and nod at him, your teeth dug into your lip.

Sipping, you calm from the coolness alone. You even think to look back at them — 

With a double-take, they’re gone from your seat.

You take your lips from your straw and crane your neck. Slowly to the other side, Saoirse comes into quick view at a different table, giggling. Taron’s next, then Pete, then Timothée – your eyes shoot wide, Professor fucking _Ransone_ making an appearance with Chastain and whoever’s next is blocked from your view by another someone right behind you. Your eyes involuntarily scan their face and — 

You _choke_ , drink shooting down the wrong pipe and just to avoid making too much noise your drop your head to the bar and clap your hands over the back of your head.

Not a single peep gets out - just the sight of a sad, lonely college kid.

Now that’s not a very appealing look either and Professor Hader being that ‘someone’ who blocked your view isn’t sure if this is good or not. Realizing you’ve become the equivalent of a turtle hiding in its shell, you groan into the bar knowing sooner or later you’ll have to pick your head up and face him head-on.

You do, standing straight but with a wicked head rush.

“Hey,” you wince. 

Professor Hader… ** _Great!_**

He’s surprised too. His lips twitch into a smile, almost excited to see you here but he supposes he could have accurately predicted you were here as well considering your friends found his table. 

He wastes no pointing over his shoulder and explaining: _“They took my phone.”_

“Oh thank god.” You drop your head and pull yourself back up with a flat smile. “Same here.” You chuckle nervously together because goodness that is a relief (for both of you). Now no matter how flattering that would have been…never-mind. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and snap your fingers at him, charmingly awkward and trying to will the alcohol to work a little faster with your own ‘playfulness.’ Really it’s an awkward… _awkward_ affair trying to act cool and calm. You are most certainly not calm. 

“The uhm-” you roll your eyes at yourself, “The true-crime one’s the lie, by the way.” 

Hader hums confused. 

“The…my Tinder bio? The two truths one lie?” You tease. 

Suddenly he follows, gently goes “Oh” with wide eyes and a gentle lean forward.

“Yeah no I…” you take a breath, “I actually like true crime. So unless Saoirse changed what it said on my bio, me not liking true crime would be the lie….” _Goodness, shut up already?_ You scoff at yourself. Maybe he didn’t even read your bio, maybe you’re just being weird bringing it up now.

Your friends erupt in overzealous laughter and you sigh at your shoes. 

Hader too looks a little embarrassed. _His_ friends are apart of that after all. 

But “Wait a minute. Then that means you have a kid brother?” He asks.

You pick your head up and gosh he has never seen so much fear in your eyes. Part of him thought it wouldn’t be possible.

“My favorite show is Snapped!” you throw out there in an attempt to sway him back to the topic of True Crime. His face lights up and he says something mildly incoherent under the noise (”Hey, mine too!”) but he curses himself for getting off track and asks “What do you mean ‘by circumstances you can’t explain?’” With an interesting smile. 

“I don’t know!” You whine. “It’s hard to explain…” 

“So you can explain it but it’s just hard to?”

You roll your eyes and go back to leaning over the bar, arms folded and fingers grasped around the rim of your glass. “Barely…” 

“What? Is-is he like…?” Hader leans his side into the bar. After you look him up and down (not so discretely) he props up on a stool. “Blood-related, or?”

You wince and hum. Not quite. 

“Adopted?”

You tilt your head, smile tighter. 

“Step-brother?”

Even to that, you laugh down at your drink. He decides to let you breathe from his prodding. You sip your drink, straw between your fingers like a cigarette and you come up after your gulp with a refreshing “ _Ah._ Name’s Finn.” 

His brows knit tight and you force a smile back at him. 

“The kid brother…? His name’s Finn—” and you make sure to annunciate. 

“Oh?”

_“Yeeaahh.”_ You crack a smile just thinking about that kid. “He’s a bit of a handful.”

Throwing your drink back and hissing at the pleasant bitterness (not too bitter, it’s a sweeter drink) you finally acknowledge your friends in their little gathering with some of your teachers. And your cheeks are filled with the liquid as you smile at Taron and return his wave. The relief that you’re not so furious at them anymore shows. Hader sits straighter, chin up and eyes curious on you because your mood sure seemed to change fast. 

He’d ask what this ‘kid’ is like if he even is a kid. But you indulge yourself first. 

“Not really a kid. In high school, but y’know — still.” He hums. It’s like when he calls you kid though you’re decently far from it. “Kind of…” you smile “a theater kid? Band geek too. Hell, if you’re still teaching by the time he gets to college I’d bet he’d take your class.” 

Hader squints. “Film nerd?”

You nod, lips pulled in. You sigh, this casual conversation a pleasant time. 

“Mmm, is he some sort of secret?” 

“Well, it’s easier to not bring him up at all because if I’m not clear about the relation then people start questioning and begging and pestering me so? And, heh, it’s a bit clear at first glance that we’re not…actually–” And before you get too far you clarify that in a sense “But we are! He’s still like my sibling.” In a sense. You laugh while trying to get some drops to slip past the ice-cubs in your glass. 

Saoirse skitters over and you raise your brows at her entrance, managing to get satisfied well enough with your small sip by the time she comes and slaps her arm around your shoulders to pull you into a tight, _tight_ hug. 

Gosh it’s tight for just one arm. 

You yelp when she lets you free from it, and she politely greets your Professor while you rub at your sore arm. 

She says “It’s so weird seeing you here!” 

And he’s bashful, mumbling how it wasn’t really his idea to come.

You mouth _‘Wasn’t mine either,’_ and he finds some solace in that. 

Saoirse whisks you away but not too far. No no, _not far enough_. She whisks you to catch up with your other teachers. The air lingers with this feeling that neither party is very pleased, like talking and ‘hanging out’ is at best an obligation but one you’re politely fulfilling nonetheless. 

Pete with his arms thrown out suggests “How about we sit?!” And gladly scoots a chair over. You scrunch your face up, horribly (pissed) embarrassed and insistent that they don’t _have_ to welcome you into their little teacher’s circle. As far as you know they’re tired and wanting to get crunk after a busying week and a busy after-day of playing catchup. 

As you’re insistent on not having to join them, Hader’s insistent on his group not having to join yours. Pete, Timothée, and Miss Chastain are the biggest supporters… 

Until a 1940s radio announcer comes from over your shoulder. 

You whip your head around and “Mulaney!” you shout, _almost_ involuntarily. You clap your hands over your mouth and try to tone your excitement down. He’s holding two drinks in hand for him and another comrade, and he gives a quick “Oops!” as he steps out of the way of a waiter who comes to their table to deliver cheese-bites and jalapeño poppers. 

Two tables pushed together later and here’s the setup: 

You sit on the booth side of things with Saoirse and Mulaney directly at your sides. Miss Chastain is on the other side of Saoirse, and at the end of the table by her is Pete. Directly across from you is Bill. You’re both mostly quiet, but when your eyes catch each other you offer embarrassed though giddy acknowledgment. Timothée and Professor Ransone (you ‘kids’ all find it kind that they call him “PJ”) sit by Bill. And Taron sits at the other head of the table, teetering into Mulaney’s space a bit. Oh, how everybody notices Taron scoot his chair closer and closer with each frat boy story. 

Your phone buzzes violently against the table. It’s loud, scares the crap out of a few of you and you quickly scoop it up and toss it to Saoirse upon reading it’s a Tinder notification.

“You started this, you deal with it.” You sincerely regret this statement when she leans over to Miss Chastain who pops the pub’s chips into her mouth and chews on one side of her cheek while casually critiquing the matches you’ve made.

You almost want to get involved….and immediately wish you weren’t again when Chastain stretches her arm to show you the screen. 

You wince, curl into yourself in embarrassment.

“Oh he’s cute!” Saoirse nudges you. “Right?”

Chastain hums. You can’t tell if she agrees or is judging you.

And of course, the men and boys get involved. Pete stretches his neck and laughs at the guy on screen as he chews his jalapeño poppers. Mulaney, with a gentle beckoning, gets Saoirse to hand the phone over. He leans back and looks down at the phone as though he needs reading glasses. Before he purses his lips and concludes “Not bad.” 

Frankly, Hader is shaking. Because once Mulaney hands it to Taron he just _knows_ it’s a pass-around sort of deal. You hide your face in your hands. 

Miss Chastain laughs a sweet, ethereal laugh. You feel comforted by it even though she has to point out how “It’s _funny_ how you made an account for Y/n today.” Her eyes sweep over her crew and settle on Ransone. He looks put on the spot but when putting the context together he cackles. 

“We made one for him too!” He nudges Hader and Hader pleads “Stop…” 

You wonder if they’re just this open or if it’s the little bit of alcohol that has them so vocal about their escapades. He slaps his hand onto Bill’s shoulder and Bill hisses just in time for Timothée to lean into his side and show him the profile of the one you’ve matched with. 

You snap your eyes onto him. 

You can’t make out what he’s feeling. There’s this soft something that doesn’t look very comfortable (Annoyance, disgust, jealousy? _Ugh, you wish—_ ) but also there’s this pained look of pride. If we’re being honest it’s because he’s obligated to feel that on your behalf for catching one, as Mulaney said _that doesn’t look that bad. And that’s being humble!_

Ransone goes “Woah!” Like it’s surprising you know how to _fish so well_. 

Discreetly you glare at him. The phone gets back to Saoirse. She leans in close, nose to your cheek and fingers tickling your side as she teases “Oh c’mon, that’s your type!” 

You groan and roll your neck, mewl how “It’s not!” with a laugh. 

She ‘deflates’ playfully. “Dark hair, light eyes-” Hader definitely catches Taron’s smirk. He feels Timothée’s eyes on him and sees Pete’s eyes over his raised glass. Saoirse’s voice dips, suddenly serious. _“Older.”_

_Ugh, he’s not even that much older than you, come on!_ A college grad at most… 

You pop up and lock your sights on the industrial clock hung over the bar.

“Oh look at that!” You grab Saoirse’s cheeks and guide her eyes there. “It’s late!” 

Hurriedly you grab your things. Mulaney scoots to give you room to gather yourself. Saoirse rolls her eyes and shoves your phone in her pocket. But she isn’t against leaving, it seems. As soon as she starts gathering her items, Taron, Pete, and Timothée follow suit.

Hader looks up and around as everyone stands and Mulaney excuses himself out of the booth to give you and Saoirse space to get out.

“It was so crazy spending time with you guys!” You exclaim, smile forced. 

But the ones they share seems to be genuine enough. Except for Hader’s. You don’t see his. He gulps and looks down at his stomach. Maybe it’s because it’s so painfully awkward being the only one able to see your discomfort. 

“Aww-” Ransone grumbles, “It’s only nine!” 

Maybe so…

”Yeah but-” you click your tongue, ‘so disappointed’ to say “We uh, we got…y’know…assignments. And stuff we have to work on…” You can’t help but look at Hader, and damn Chastain —she catches it! “You know…for film studies?” Now you _can’t_ look away from him.

She clicks her tongue at Hader. “Bill, give your students a break!” She sips her drink.

He blinks up at her. “Wh-I-I didn’t assign anything.” 

He looks at you, clenching his jaw and trying to communicate something. It’s probably “Why would you say that?!” and you just shrug mouthing’ _I don’t know!’_

Barely saving yourself you stumble away from the table and back into Taron. “Heh, silly me! I-I must have mistaken the work from a different class as one from yours!” You giggle. 

Pete scoffs and unnecessarily shouts over Saoirse’s head. 

“You don’t have any work! You finished yours up today!”

The group stills. Saoirse thinks you’re about to commit _murder_. You aren’t even glaring at Pete, just stone-cold staring at a loss for emotion and words… 

“Heh!” You ‘laugh.’ “Well, we’re all already up so we might as well go!” You snatch Taron’s hand and drag him behind the table. “Wonderful seeing you all!” You wave, and they wave back. You think you hear Hader grunt his goodbye and you see him down a thick gulp of his drink from the corner of your eye. 

You punch Pete in the arm when you get outside. 

Hader chokes to see _everyone_ smirking at him. 

They should teach the drama department for how well they played being ‘clueless’ about your and Hader’s Tinder match.

“Well..” Chastain raises her chin and her drink. “That was nice.” 

_She ~~ships~~ sips._


	21. Hallway Cliche *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I’ve been picturing Bill and reader accidentally crashing into each other in the hall while they are both carrying books and paperwork, everything goes everywhere, they help each other pick up the things and then their hands clash together and they look at each other’s touching hands and then look up into each other eyes and time stands still for a few minutes until they are both brought back into the world and hurry off, trying to comprehend what just happened VERY CLICHÉ I KNOW 😂" ~ Anon

Here’s how it happened _so you know how to avoid it ever happening again_. 

You were linking arms with Saoirse, your free arm wrapped around your _satchel_ which was not over your shoulders, by the way. You held it like a baby, the weight of your books and notes and everything heavy on your arm. You were feeling at some gadget in your pocket. No big deal, right? But you decided to pull it out and broke the bond you had with her. 

It was just a silly little keychain (you haven’t worn this jacket in forever, maybe that’s why you didn’t recognize it) and you stopped for perhaps a _second_ without Saoirse to guide your notorious tendency to walk diagonally, and you _giggled_ and suddenly your laughter was _painful_ because in that instant as you gave breath away for being in awe with this keychain of a lego-man wearing a shark costume, you were simultaneously knockedbackward _,_ fell straight to the floor and _dropped_ your satchel onto your chest before your instinctive _heave_ had you rolling over and spilling _more_ out of it.

Did you catch that?

Well neither did Professor Hader who still, for the love of all that’s holy, does _not_ understand how of all people at all times did he run into _you_. 

And he berates himself for being so _slow_ to help you up. 

You chuckle just to ease yourself, the realization that you’ve dropped _everything_ not _quite_ settling. 

And he’s fumbling unsure if he should help you _up_ or kneel _down_ to help you pick stuff up. He almost reaches for your shoulder but you reach for your bag just at that moment, and he snatches his hand away with a nervous _hiss_ that pulls your eyes and – 

“Oh!” You gasp. 

“Ah!” He shouts under his breath. “God I’m-I’m sorry–” He kneels with you. 

It’s hard to keep up the polite smile when you can close your eyes and _replay_ the feeling of his chest against yours if you _really_ want to (you do). 

You groan at yourself and curse this… _thing_ you have because goodness you really don’t want to call it a crush. 

“Heh, don’t worry about it,” you insist, chuckling. 

It’s even _harder_ when he reaches for the same spread-out stack as you do. He brushes the top of your knuckles before yanking his hand away, and you eye him (not so secretly) before continuing on. He tenses. That may or may not have to do with the look you give him.

You scoop everything together, careful with the corners and making sure every paper is neatly stacked. Hader still groans as he stretches to grab the pieces that fluttered off a little far from your initial reach. He taps the stack against his thigh to try and straighten it out. 

Looking over your shoulder you see your group is gone. But you know better and presume they’re waiting behind some corner to berate you with teasing kissy noises and rock your shoulders around about how _cliche_ it was for you two to run into each other like that. 

You roll your eyes and clench your jaw, giving an irritated huff. 

That little _huff_ adds fire to the guilt already pitted in his stomach. He gulps down an overzealous apology. It’s soft, instead, “Sorry.” 

And you wipe all that anger clean off your face. You smile at him. “I walk diagonally sometimes. It’s my fault.” You kind of get lost in your own head sometimes…no big deal. 

“I uh,” he gets caught, and clicks his tongue, “should’ve been looking where I was going.” 

You hum _“Well-”_ ready to agree with that and let him have the blame since he offered!

He catches your sly smirk and chuckles with you before quickly reeling back to get a look at you.

“But _seriously,_ that was a fall – are you sure you’re okay?”

(He vaguely reaches for you. Why? Maybe it’s out of instinct to comfort you, pull you in so he can have a look for himself. But he pulls his arms tight to his chest instead and discreetly eyes his hands like they’ve betrayed him for reaching so eagerly.) 

You scrunch your nose and palm at your head. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it.” 

Best you can do is shove all your papers into your bag. So you do just that, holding it tight to your chest as you pick yourself up from the floor. 

He follows and after surveying the floor to make sure you haven’t missed anything, you look straight at each other.

Your eyes lock for only a moment. 

It is a long, agonizing moment.

You hate it.

And snap “Gotta get going!” before slipping past him and speed-walking around that same corner you predicted your friends would be hidden behind. 

_God_ they are childish and g _od,_ you never thought that elementary school K-I-S-S-I-N-G song could be so painful again.


	22. Taron Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> taron. that’s it. taron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you didn’t know – i sometimes visualize taron as bryan dechart. i know he's taken after taron egerton -- i got into detroit: become human shortly after making that decision and now i visualize taron as a mix of the two. whoops.

“Can I stay?”

It’s tiny. But you can hear it, minus next door - their music is booming, _“Afraid”_ if you’re thinking right playing with a distant, echoing quality. It’s an acceptable warm in the building, yet a chill seems to flutter down the hall when he asks that. 

But the gentleness disappears when he clears his throat and his head dips down, cough hidden in the wrist of his puffy jacket. He leans up with a tight, bare smile.

And you find yourself muttering “Alright,” nodding once and extending past the threshold to wave the rest of them away - _(”Awe” “Oh come on!”)_ mildly offended, mostly amused.

“You guys suck!” You remind with a thumbs up.  


They mirror the sentiment when you press to the door to wave them off and let Taron pass. Saoirse, Pete, Timothee are gone down the turn in the hall and inside the elevator. 

“How long do you mean to stay?”  


In shuffling off his jacket and making a drawn-out _squeak_ of questioning, you figure it’s a while. Till morning, at least, the others destined to take whichever car got them here. Presumably Pete’s run-down hand-me-down. And to that, you pat on the door-frame and walk past him to your room. 

“Look,” he grunts “I’m sorry!” His coat drops to the floor before he swipes it up and hangs it properly on the coat-rack. You’re back out in the kitchen flipping a switch on your boiler and sliding a mug onto the counter when he stumbles over. He holds onto the surface, and separated by it you mirror his hard-hold on the counter’s edge with a passive expression. He knows you’re bitter but forcing politeness in a way you try to make _clear_ is far from genuine. He tries, he tries, the charm amping up but it makes your grin die. 

It was all fun and games, all of them giddy and prodding your ribs with their elbows on the trek back to your apartment after the bar experience – just how _abysmal_ the whole experience was became a heavier weight along-side the snowfall the farther out you got. You admitting _“Alright - that was good,”_ and them giggling over what was (truly, honestly) a coincidence became stuck in your throats. Maybe it was the guilt, maybe it was the cold. They shuffled inside to warm a bit but the tension as you nibbled your lip and stayed occupied in the corner, mind wracking with embarrassment, chilled them even more.

_“We better head out -”_ they said.  


_“Awe -”_ you lied.   


But you hugged it out in their goodbye so they suppose it’s alright.

“I wasn’t the one who matched you guys!” On Tinder, that is. Taron reminds you with hands off the counter and up in defense. Which is true - that was apart of Timothee and Pete’s mutual mastermind. But you don’t stand down, instead leaning away from the counter with crossed arms.   


Taron croaks - he’s cut off by the first _popping_ bubble of your water-boiler. You beckon him with a scrunch of your nose to go on – go ahead, _defend yourself while I get the tea steeping._ You sort through the cans, peculiarly interested in the labels. He thinks that’s you trying to show you don’t _care about his excuses_. But you react almost visibly, cautious of the caffeinated flavors before shoving them to the side.

Taron raps his knuckles on the counter as he rounds it. 

_“And_ I wasn’t the one who said we should join them!”  


“Eh, well-” you shrug “never said we _shouldn’t_ , either.”  


He bites his lip. Frustration, anxieties, it all manifests in his leg, bouncing but otherwise unnoticeable under the boiling, the _popping_. “Did you really have _that_ bad a time? Come on…” He asks, disbelieving, voice teetering toward quiet but not there yet.

You take a deep breath. “Yeah, I did.” And you whip around, hands cupped around tonight’s selection: a purple tin of tea. It’s one of the types labeled as a “relaxer,” and you know you’ll despise the taste but it’s rated 0 teacups of 3 on the “caffeine” scale and it better pull through and prove itself as a “relaxer.”

The drinks (though you had few) made your muscles buzzy and head frustratingly aware of everything while it lasted. The effects almost entirely washed away when the cold air outside the bar hit for the first time.

Was it the drinks that made you feel that way? Or your Professor and his presence? 

Taron frowns, looking as though to say _“Really…?”_ But not entirely believing either. Almost sympathetic, not there yet. It’s playful, only for a second until he realizes his tone is _still_ unmet.

“I mean, it _could’ve been fun,”_ you grumble, forcing a smile and slapping the tin into your other hand. The bubbles _pop_ again (enough for Taron to jump) and the flakes of dried leaves inside the tin slam into the other side of it (they _ding!)_. “I mean, I didn’t want to go out in the first place but you all made me so I said ‘Fine! I’ll do it!’ Already out of my comfort zone, then we walked, we sat, that whole ordeal wasn’t _too_ terrible or looking so bad until you just _went along_ when everyone insisted _‘hey let’s sit and clearly insinuate everything inappropriate we possibly can about our friend and professor in front of his colleagues, no less!’ ‘Let’s have a drink, let’s have a dance, let’s go fucking crazy!’”_ You stop, jaw clenched.  


“….We didn’t have a dance,” he whispers. 

“No, you just sandwiched me between two of my professors and across from the one I–” you lower your voice “–may or may not have feelings for–” Taron glares “And handed him my phone to give his input about my Tinder match from an account you guys made for me without my desire or permission.”  


He sighs “I’m sorry…” 

“Yeah, you keep _saying that_ , but you’ll go ahead and steal his keys to lock us alone together in his office tomorrow if you had the chance, won’t you?”  


He blinks. That’s entirely true.

“I just–!” You freeze at your own volume. The boiler’s calmed down, bubbles popping diminutively before settling. You go ahead and scoop some tea-leaves into your steeper, pour water over, and let it sit while you continue. You quiet down while you’re at it too. It’s a whisper, only your heart banging in your ear. “I don’t…. _get_ …why _you_ of all people when you _know_ I have issues contemplating relationships as they are, would just go along with this. I mean, you _stopped_ when I told you to stop joking about hooking me up with your friend. You told your friends to stop joking about getting together with me and – _don’t you think this is a little tiny bit worse, at least?”_  


_“Yeah…”  
_

“So for the love of God _, Taron, please_ stop joking. Leave me and him and my love-life be. Hmm?”  


He cracks a sad smile. “Alright. I’m sorry.”

He opens his arms, nose flushed now and lips pouty. “Please?”

You shake your head. “I’m not hugging you.”

That pout is wiped off real quick, replaced not with offense but surprise. “ _Wow_ , you really _are_ mad at me.”

“Yup. I _really_ am.”  


You look over your shoulder. The tea isn’t at its deepest color, but the saturation still rises from the bottom to the top of the clear tea-pot. 

Taron looks around. He blinks hard. “Uhm, well…Can I at least-”

You roll your eyes and smile at the ground. “Yes, you can take the couch.”

* * *

You’re silent.

You stare, cheeks puffed and mouths full of food. He made it confidently, up early and peppy, hopeful for a fresh start at things. The loudest thing hasn’t been when he cursed _“Shit!”_ as your pots and pans poured from the cabinet, or when his metal spatula _screeched_ across the pan (and when he groaned to think he may have permanently scratched it. He worried. You take pride in the state of your cooking-supplies for someone who seemingly won’t cook to save your life), or when the pan sizzled obnoxiously so when the window-panes stopped shaking from the wind and the traffic was low.

You drop your fork and it jingles against the empty plate. And you stare, chewing your last mouthful.

And you still aren’t speaking.

He jokes _“_ Please,” then desperately, then over your shoulder and uncomfortably close like a tripping puppy _“Please?”_ while you wash your plate and his. To that he mutters, “Thank you…” and you slip out of his sight while he puts the plates back in the cabinet.

“Won’t you talk to me?” As your feet pad down the carpeted hall.   


Your name comes out in a whiny drawl, his head bumping against your closed door while you dress on the other side of it, his breath hitching and hopeful when the door swings open again and you slip past him dressed anew for the morning.

Still hopeful, he chuckles and turns to watch you, his finger-wagging in understanding at this _cruel_ game you’re playing…again. But he smirks knowing you won’t be able to play it for much longer. “I see- I see! You’re giving me the–” 

You close the bathroom door on him. His head bumps against it again. He couldn’t see it coming under his smug. He knocks his skull against it again; over and over. You turn on the water. He’s disoriented and stumbling back to press flat against the wall when you open it and walk to the living room. 

You swipe one of his socks off the ground. “Hey–” 

You swipe a second one. He cries your _name_. 

_“Please.”_ You lay them neatly together and rest them on the couch, _“Talk to me,”_ by his folded button-up shirt, _“Honestly…!”_ and you nudge his shoes to sit under them on the floor.   


“You weren’t giving me this yesterday!”   


You look at him and smile ‘impressed.’ Glad he noticed. Because that is correct.

He reels back, jaw slaw, and nods. “Heh…you’re still mat at me.” You shrug. Maybe. “So you’re trying to punish me, huh?” You tilt your head. Please Taron, do explain further. What makes him think that, huh?

When you walk around him, is that a kick in your step? Or are you full-on skipping?

He contemplates following you to your room, but your door closes mostly. He pouts, head hung in his own despair while pulling his socks on and his button-up over his tee. He calls out “Hey, how long is this going to last?”

No answer. 

He waits almost limp-armed and truly pouty. It isn’t his show pout, the one for girls, the one to tease and seduce and one of his many tactics. Really, that’s his one tactic. He has others and you’ve seen them but that’s because he only has to use them for you. The _pout_ is all that works for others. His brows aren’t tight, his jaw isn’t clenched, but the lack of anything _else_ in his face gives him quite a bitter expression. He’s so often doing _something_ and playing some _role_ that it’s hard for others to notice his face naturally rests harshly like yours.

Some call it a ‘restless bitch face,’ if that description wasn’t working.

He stays still but follows you with his eyes as you cross the apartment.

And on your way out, he’s closed over your shoulder again.

You keep your chin up, one hand holding the strap of your bag.

His silent but expressive internal-struggle is just out of your side. He wonders if he’s willing to go without his materials today if it means there might be a moment for you to _crack_.

That makes your stomach tight knowing he’ll be close as can be. But you almost chuckle just thinking about his commitment to these sorts of things. 

But you don’t, not yet. He can’t win that fast. 

He drags himself through the snow – thick and crunchy, but it isn’t following anymore – his head bobbing side-to-side with each lazy step. He watches you, waiting for that flicker of a smile or that look of regret. But no matter how long this will last, you won’t regret it and you won’t crack. 

You gave him the silent treatment once. 

Okay maybe twice. 

And a third time your freshman year of college. 

But he was so good after that! Your buddy, your pal, your right-hand man who couldn’t do anything wrong even when he was the _worst_. 

He was a little more baby-faced back then. It was harder to ignore him. But you still did – your record is a week of _silence._ Anything more than that and he gets sad, you start missing him, and you mutually realize you have no idea why it started. His will to win is stronger than yours. At least it used to be.

“You know Alexa?” He starts. Don’t roll your eyes, _don’t roll your eyes_. He’s able, and he will go on with these one-sided conversations for as long as he needs to. 

She’s from a Sorority. Alexa Demie. 

She’s nice, actually. 

You can’t make any jokes about her though. About _Despacito_ or Amazon or anything. He just _loves_ knowing you have to keep your joke to yourself, doesn’t he?

There comes a fork in your road, your morning classes on opposite sides of campus. 

“Bye?!” He calls, prematurely offended knowing he will get nothing back.   


You wave. It’s a bare-minimum wave, your hand simply in the air without much movement, but it’s something that makes his heart warm, he supposes. 

* * *

He comes in from the side this time when you meet again on your way to Professor Hader’s class. The snow isn’t any thinner but it’s softer and wet, sun shining down now. There was time for him to grab his things, evident by the bag on his back. You’re together now though and he’s close, nose hovering over the back of your head and quickly over your cheek when stretching his neck to get a peek at you state of being. 

Do you look to be in any better of a mood? Worse?

Your cheeks are stiff, not even a twitch of a smile or anything. 

_“Please?”_ he asks. 

_“Please?_ For me?” again. 

His voice is monotonous, like a child in the back of a car seat on a road trip. But no, you guys aren’t there yet. You won’t be for a while. 

‘A while’ is subjective. 

He sprints to hold open the door to Hader’s classroom, and you duck under his arm with a thankful nod before taking long-steps to your seat. You don’t look at Hader on your left, Pete or Timothee on your right, not even Saoirse higher up. Last night’s affair makes their heads throb. They couldn’t wave or call out a greeting if they tried. 

Hader thinks it peculiar though, their stiff, dull eyes following you across the room.

Taron slows on his way up the steps. His knuckles brush your desk and his fingers crawl to your papers. You don’t look at him, you don’t flick his hand away, you just work around his increasingly-troublesome stance. 

He peeps _“Hey…”_ and whispers your name. 

It chills you, and you shiver but blink hard to minimize the reaction before it gets worse. 

The spot next to you is empty. 

He purses his lips and hums pleasantly. 

His shadow passes. You breathe in relief until you see it cross directly and feel him bump against the back of your seat. Your eyes close tight and you clench your jaw, _tighter_ even when his gaze doesn’t leave your cheek. And when you relax your muscles and a strip of hair falls down to tickle your face, he mutters “Oops, _I’ve got it-”_

So slow, his finger moves across your cheekbone. You glare forward. 

Uncomfortable silence isn’t against you. The class still shuffles around the room, coming in and gathering their things.

Professor Hader … unsure of this, gets lost in thought. 

His greeting, his start for the class, comes late and the air of urgency in saying it as he realizes he should have said it earlier is clear in his hurried voice. 

“Good afternoon–!”   


Taron _finally_ finishes tucking the strand away and leans against his seat with his eyes still glued to you in his corner, and his arms crossed over his chest. 

You suppress an eye-roll, and smugly, he smiles.

* * *

The back of his eyes hurt, and he blames his own frustrated pinch on his forehead’s temples for his headache. Because _he forgot how good you are at this._ His emotions? On a rollercoaster right now. You scoop up your things, neglecting to store any of it in your bag, and are out of Hader’s classroom before he finishes shouting his final reminders. 

You had no problem retaining the information despite Taron’s many attempts.

Hader follows you. He looks at your desk, Taron is also gone. 

He straightens himself up, his lungs tight with a worry he insists is idiotic because Taron wouldn’t hurt you but he’s been following so _closely_ that he wonders if – 

_“I need your help-”_ Taron drops his hand on the desk. 

He struggles to hold his things in one arm _and_ secure his backpack. 

Supposing his reminders were doomed to be unheard anyways, Hader doesn’t bother continuing and the class files out. Saoirse, Pete, Timothee too, one of the three much more interested in Taron’s current visit than the other two. 

“With…what?” Hader slows. 

Taron sniffles and lets his bag drop. He kneels and looks up at Hader as he gets his things in order.

“Look I-” he grunts, laptop not fitting properly and needing some extra fiddling, _“messed up and–”_ he pops up again, everything in his (unzipped) backpack but forehead a little sweaty. “I don’t know what to do.”

Hader blinks. “Okay?”

“Y/n’s giving me the silent treatment.” 

Hader nods, sitting back in his chair and swiveling side to side. “I…saw that.” He didn’t. Well, he didn’t think it was _that_ entirely. He thought it was a bout of silence between you two, not that it was calculated or anything.

“And I mean-” Taron chuckles “she’s done this before but I think she’s like… _extra serious this time.”_

Hader blinks again. He doesn’t now what else to do. “I mean…what did you… _do?”_ He runs his tongue over his cheek, sights on your empty seat.

It was the night at the bar, wasn’t it? 

He looks up at Taron. Taron brings his bottom lip into his mouth. There’s one of his genuine pouts, the rest of his face startlingly stiff in expression except for a sad urgency in his eyes. 

Hader sighs and Taron mumbles “Yeah…” 

“I-I don’t _know_. Just…apologize?”

“I _did_. But she’s like really mad. And I don’t think you get it-” 

For convenience, Hader started keeping an extra chair at his desk. Taron slides it over, plops into it, and scoots till his knees are against the desk. Hader sighs deep watching that and tries to hide any dismay on his face by picking at his eyes. 

“She _never_ gets mad. If she gets mad, she gets _really_ mad. Okay?”  


Hader nods. “Got it.” 

“And last time she gave me the silent treatment, it was _awful.”_

Hader nods. “Got it…” 

“One time she didn’t speak to me, or text me, for a _week_. Okay?”

“Yeah I got it–” Hader scoots closer and holds his hands out. “Have you tried _talking_ to her?” Taron nods. “As in _actually_ talking to her, or apologizing. Or doing something to genuinely apologize instead of just…bugging her?”

Taron’s eyes flicker to the door. That’s a no… 

“Just….” Hader shakes his head, “be serious?” 

“I’ll buy her something.” 

Hader’s stumped. “N-No just–” 

Taron gets up and points at Hader, his head in a bouncing nod. “That’s it!” 

“Don’t just buy her forgiveness, actually _apologize_ Taron–” 

“She loves when I buy her stuff.” 

“Oh my God.” 

“Thank you!” Taron cackles, walking backward out of the class. Hader swivels his chair appropriately to follow his eye-line. 

Hader knocks on his desk. “You’re welcome…”

* * *

Your path is blocked in a blink. Taron skids against the cleared-off sidewalk and slips on the crusty, crackling patches of ice. He’s crazed, sweat across his hair-line. His nose, lips, and _hands are_ brighter than the rest of his skin as he raises a clear Starbucks cup with a white drink streaked with bright reds and pinks. He presents it with a loud hum, begging for approval.

It looks pretty, and you grab it with your gloved hand.

You frown, impressed as you examine it, then tilt your head and stare into his eyes.

He waits. This is his offer, _this is his silent apology._

He hypes himself up, nodding, waiting for the moment you speak up and say _“Thank you!”_

“It’s-it’s a–!” He hisses “I actually don’t know what it’s…called, but! I know it’s supposed to taste like strawberry shortcake.” He smiles and nods at the drink. “You love strawberry shortcake!”

You blink. 

His face falls, his chest rises in panic. “You like strawberry shortcake, don’t you?”

Looking him up and down, you nod, lips parted. 

He takes a deep breath, and lets it out, relieved and shaking his head at your teasing. You had him so panicked for a moment.

“Try it!” He helps, pushing your hand toward your mouth. 

You pinch the straw and take a slow sip, eyes stuck on his. You get a cheek-full and swallow (it’s cold, so cold. You sniffle and look over your shoulder to hide how your face twists in pain from the brain-freeze). Your face scrunched as though unsure how to feel about it.

How his body deflates and he crumples over his own knees having held his breathe that whole time is so _loud_.

Professor Hader can see it from down the way just exiting his building. 

You sip again and hum nearly impressed. 

Taron looks up, still hunched over, his eyes bright and again hopeful. 

You smack your lips. “I like it.” 

He smiles slowly, teeth showing. “You like it?” he laughs.

You nod, tilting your head and stirring the drink with your straw before taking another sip. “I do.” 

Taron leans back. 

You notice he has no coat. No coat, no backpack. He’s in his button-up from yesterday and this morning, his sleeves rolled up. How isn’t he cold? He must be, no matter how hard his heart is beating. You look at the Starbucks and see his colorful bundle of clothes sat in the pure-white snow by the entrance. 

You look between him and the building.

“Did-” your face twists, horribly concerned, remembering the sweat all over him. “Did you _run?”_

He nods like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t drop everything so he could dash across campus without anything holding him back. 

You grab his shoulder and nod over there. “You-you should go get your things. It’s like 30 degrees.” The sun is still out but the wind decided to come into the picture around noon. It overwhelms any heat the sun offered upon the Earth. 

“No I’m-I’m good. I’m not cold.” 

You glare at him. “Go get your coat.” 

Taron clicks his tongue, hands still on his hips, and quickly heads in that direction. 

You didn’t speak because of the drink. 

You spoke because he would have passed out holding his breath. 

You take a deep breath after another harsh, brain-freezing sip, and look around hoping the wind will chill your cheeks more than your skull at the moment. You don’t notice anyone around you, anyone who may be watching.

But it is really sweet. 

You take another sip, twisting in place and watching him jog to his things. 

He is really sweet. 


	23. Tinder Time *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "drabble where reader in TP is scrolling through her phone, and she realizes tinder (or whatever the app was lol) is still on there so she opens it and goes through it a bit just to figure it out then comes across Prof. Hader's profile that Mrs. Chastain made for him and she goes through it and there are like some really cute pictures of him on there. Like he just looks so happy and sweet that you want to give him a hug :))) -🌻 (p.s. this is almost like a parallel to him looking at her insta)" ~ Anon

_Shame_ isn’t exactly the word to describe it.

It’s fleeting energy. Excitement, maybe? It’s snuffed out by a queasy feeling in your stomach, but the longer you stare at your phone screen the duller it gets. 

You open the app, swipe left on a few faces to justify that you’re not back on Tinder _just_ for….him…then hesitate. 

After a moment your fingers bounce on the screen from convo to convo (that you certainly didn’t start yourself) till you meet your unspoken match: Hader. And with another press, you’re scanning his bio and with some swipes, you’re peeping his pictures. 

Your lips curl, frowning with shaky delight. 

Here is a selfie that seems almost accidental: his beanie is on tight and he’s _scruffy_. He’s close to the camera. Like, _close_. There’s another: obviously cropped from another picture. He’s wearing a hoodie, his hair is a bit blown about and on the longer side – looks younger. And there’s another – not _too_ much younger, maybe a year or so’s difference – crisp blazer, awkward standing position, a creeping smile. You catch Mulaney’s never-ending stare in the background right past Hader’s shoulder, _knowing_ somehow. You blink hard and take a deep breath to reset and swipe away from that. 

You don’t feel like being called out right now.

In this one he looks tired; disenchanted and over-worked, but _smiling_ with a lop-sided grin and his hand in his hair. He makes little attempt to look into the camera. Looks recent…maybe. Looks genuine…maybe, but that’s not something you’re _entirely_ hoping for. You catch a silhouette of Ransone’s side-profile in the background, warped with harsh white-out lighting on his cheeks and even harsher shadows on his nose. So maybe this was taken was an outing between friends? 

You wonder if this was taken that night at the bar before either of you knew the other was there…but you can’t see his outfit, so maybe it’s best to not dwell on it. 

Your anger flares to imagine that the distress on his face from whatever shenanigans your friends may have caused him during your brief visit to the bathroom.

It probably wasn’t from that night…probably.

And to end things here’s one where he’s mid-laugh. It’s a bit blurry, probably screenshotted from a video Chastain or Ransone had on their phone. 

Such a sweet smile he has….

You flop back in bed, your room dark and the faint light of your screen snuffed out as you hold it to your chest. You chuckle to yourself.

_Such_ a sweet smile… 

You hug yourself. 


	24. Taron Time (Again!) *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "hi! i was just thinking what if taron takes reader out to dinner as a further “im sorry” which quickly devolves into ditching dinner and having a few too many drinks at the bar closest to campus. drunk reader tends to mimic tarons flirty energy, maybe the bartender mistakes them for a couple, maybe they roll with it. but wait is that prof chastain sitting at a table with the other professors? is that the back of haders head?? is she coming over here??? maybe you should get off of tarons lap????" ~ Anon

You wish Taron was a little less gentlemanly.

And that there were fewer bars. Who would’ve thought?

Yet you’re stressed, and suddenly cocktails and whiskey and jello shots are all the more appealing. The latter for fun evenings, the former for scenes like this (Taron took you out to dinner, more on that in a moment), the middle a bittersweet in-between. The name winds up more enjoyable than downing the actual drink; you do with a twisted face but pretend to your best ability before accepting the next.

(He brought you here saying it was another apology and you whined _“You don’t have to do this,”_ while he dragged you by your wrist and insisted _“I know, I know! But I want to.”)_

You eat, you talk, joke around, argue about the check; all that.

Then a glimmer of streetlight catches in the slick sign of this lounge across the street; he experiences a paradigm shift spanning this single evening. You split the bill, he drags you by the wrist again into this new lounge, then you get cozy at the bar and for the first twenty minutes chat, unbothered by the liquor and volume of drunks down the bar as you come down. The walls are black, the lights dim and warm, the accents silver with touches of gold. It’s too sophisticated for him and too cozy for you. But the drinks are cheaper than the appetizers, so what do you know!

You’re drink-less until the vulnerability of his stories and jokes warrant just a little bit. He orders for both of you.

You mutter “Oh Jesus,” and take a si, wondering where this night will take you. It has a sweet under-taste, sweeter than you expected. So it seems he does pay attention to you. 

He drawls more questions and entices more stories (questions you can’t remember the specifics of when looking back. You can’t fathom what he could ask that struck you as so vulnerably charming). But you pucker your lips and run a hand through his hair. It’s playful, his locks too tidy for your liking and you pet him almost obsessively while you answer, ignorant to your own vulnerable unraveling. You’re lazy with your words (If he remembers the questions he asked, he won’t remember your answers to them). But in the moment, he thinks them over with awe, with wonder.

You ask him his own, assumedly just as vulnerable, just as warranting of a cheeky expression in response.

He scoots his stool close and bows his head. 

His head drops to your shoulder and his hair is on your neck, then your chin, and you cheek as you bow against him. Your lips warm up his ear as you release hiccupping giggles. Words slip past your lips and follow with a silent smirk against him. 

(How scandalous were you to have such a thought come aloud like that, so swiftly and confidently too?)

Taron giggles lowly.

His sound is slow as the bar, as slow as the fleeing patrons (did they leave? Or was your bubble becoming smaller?) and your laughs are hazy and you don’t remember drinking as much as you do…or what you order after that first drink, or after the second, or the third, or what drink warrants a cherry stem to now luxuriously sit between your teeth as you ogle Taron.

Or God, what _you_ say or what _he_ says to encourage you onto his lap. Is this moment…sultry? Would you consider this ‘straddling him?’ Or is it giddy? Are you sitting on his lap just to sit and giggle at the absurdity?

Who first notices familiar red locks looming closer from the corner? Who first recognizes the voice, so familiarly authoritative?

Who’s idea is it for you to get off his lap? Or who takes the initiative to break apart… _this?_

There is no question of who thinks this is rightfully absurd and embarrassing, or who flushes first when the chaperoning tone from Mrs. Chastain starts to sober you up. The feeling is mutual. You remember that much as you wobble out of the bar after the brief talk, suddenly sleeping and feeling _caught_.

One question though is who…if either of you…makes first eye-contact with Mrs. Chastain’s present crew?

Is it Taron drawn to Ransone? Or Hader drawn to you?


	25. Paranoia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after more or less straddling taron at a bar, you get ideas that vary between “what if…?” and paranoia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the previous chapter/drabble "Taron Time (Again!)" is treated as canon, and heavily influences this chapter, so make sure to read it.

You know the meaning behind your shared look. It’s acknowledgment, accepting the responsibility to keep quiet. You move your seat back so Taron can squeeze into the one beside you.

The respect is mutual, the silence impenetrable. In a way, it’s calming.

But the way he moves is _loud_ , the memory of bass drumming through speakers from the bar is _loud_ , the feeling of your arm on the countertop is _freezing_ , and the aftertaste on your tongue is _painfully sweet._

Remembering the way you sank into _someone’s_ lap jerks you out of your memories, and you squirm in your seat.

And just as last night he’s sat beside you again. He’s close too, your knees touching.

Suddenly the silence isn’t so calming. Impenetrable, huh? Spoke too soon…

If anyone asks, you’ll say the cold caught you this morning, and a restless night is what painted these bags under your eyes. If you flinch too much, you’ll play off your throbbing headache as a consequence of your sleepless night.

People _have_ been asking. Pure determination got you acting through the wooziness and headaches but noticing the clock and remembering this is the last class of your day knocks your attention span into nothing.

People keep pushing on the door, the metal handle keeps squeaking, it’s like a rusted accordion, and you can’t get it out of your mind. You don’t hear it when it actually comes around, or see who comes in, who goes out, you just know it exists. And you hate it.

The Professor claps – _look at that_ – you jump awake. Not _the professor_ , but Professor Hader, somehow lost to obscurity because so much else is swimming through your mind.

Taron watches you discreetly. He nudges you and you reassure him you’re alive with a nod. He doesn’t stop watching, but he doesn’t bug you outright.

You’re as fine as you can be when Hader’s just another nagging thing on your mind, but you don’t know _why_. Something’s missing from your memory, some special reason to why he keeps looking to you and more peculiarly to Taron at your side.

Taron mumbles “You alright?” Leaned close. The less moving you have to do, the better. The less you have to talk, the better, so you nod again and slump back in your chair.

No, you’re not really alright.

‘All right’ is to say nothing is bothering you on a mental level. You can make it through the pain, be strangely _content_ that Taron is sitting at your side, and still loathe this headache but you would be _alright_. It’s something else, some compartment you can’t unlock is just too much of a weight to bear. Watching Hader, your face sour and eyes half-lidded, you visualize a safe filled with diamonds. Say the safe is the whole night and what you can remember. It itself is heavy, and you can’t move it or erase the whole excursion from your memory but you _can remove_ the diamonds if you had the damn key. You could jiggle the diamonds into a pocket or something and there, whatever you’re missing can be dealt with. But you don’t _have_ the key, you don’t know what it is you don’t know, you don’t know who’s involved in this missing segment of your memories so –!

You close your eyes for a moment. The bar-top last night looked like crushed diamonds. You pinch your temples and close your eyes.

You don’t open your eyes to find the class done and everyone has gone, but this seems to happen later. You have retained absolutely nothing from the lecture.

And your preoccupation with this mysterious mystery has omitted all guilt from your body. You would be up by Hader’s desk apologizing profusely, asking to spend more time with him after class to make sure you _really_ heard what you _think_ you heard but you glare on passive and only get up when Taron’s shaking your shoulder and nodding for you to hurry along.

You don’t tell him to wait or snap at him for shaking your shoulder, or question why he’s in such a hurry for you to ‘hurry along’ with him.

You just cradle your laptop, throw your backpack over your shoulder, and….walk out.

Hader is but a blur in the corner of your eye.

You’re joyful to be leaving his class (not a sensation you’ve felt for a while).

The freezing hallway slaps you back into a more than dazed consciousness.

But “Oh God,” you mutter and look at the time on your phone.

A whole – however long that was – has passed, and you hum, supposing there’s nothing you can do about the lost time. Still a shame, however.

You scroll through, expecting Saoirse, Pete, Timotheé, _anybody_ to have blown up your phone revealing information you don’t know yet.

Like maybe you did something _really really stupid_ that everyone knows about now. Who knows? _Not you! **That’s the problem!**_

“So what now?” You grunt to Taron.

Taron shrugs. He’s loosely bundled wearing an unzipped windbreaker and a measly jumper underneath. His cheeks are flushed but the rest of him is unbothered by the cold in the hall.

“Coffee?” He suggests. “Lunch?” It’s – you look at the clock again – more of a lunch-dinner situation akin to brunch.

But you mutter, “Yeah, alright.”

You walk side by side, elbows bumping against each other, hands buried in your pockets, not a single thought on your mind. Nothing races, that curious guilt and anxiety are gone, and it’s just peaceful now. It’s like Taron’s on vacation (mentally), that crackhead energy taking a nap until the foreseeable future. It’s weird but nice.

The next morning your hangover is gone and the grogginess too, but not the looming anxiety that you’re forgetting something. Calm Taron is still around too.

You ‘run into’ each other, walk to class, and he ditches his seat again to sit next to you. It just feels right sharing the space. You don’t even think to complain.

You don’t nod at Hader on the way in, or wave in a much more formal manner, or truly acknowledge his existence aside from what he is: your teacher, teaching, lecturing, and whatnot. Contrary, he eyes you, Taron too. And in those moments your stomach tightens, and you feel put on the spot. You smile at him just because…Give a little wave? It seems all the more artificial, calculated; you feel people noticing your little interactions this time around.

It’s like you’re caught between both of them but now you don’t know _why_. There’s no reason to be. _RIGHT?_

You haven’t felt much of a flurry in your chest or stomach around Hader since the Tinder incident. Until now, you suppose. The feeling’s back _now_ but it’s not remotely natural or comfortable.

These past few days have gone as fast as light and to ease this feeling you rush out of class when it’s over.

You don’t wait for Taron to pick up his things, but you wait outside, leaning against the wall and nibbling at your nails as you try to dig up something from the recesses of your subconscious memory.

Did you do something at the bar that nobody is telling you about? Was a video made, is that how this has gotten out? Or are you paranoid to suspect there’s anything significant behind the way Hader looks at you? Maybe he’s just looking….? Maybe he thinks your hair is weird, or something.

You reach for your water bottle, if not because you’re thirsty then just to focus on _anything else_ , but it’s gone. The way your stomach deepens into an ever-more horrific abyss isn’t because it’s lost.

It’s because it’s inside the classroom.

Pushing past the students (you do with a silent grunt) filing out is nothing, but having to speed back to your seat with your lips zipped shut and head down to snatch your bottle only to realize you’ve _lost_ Taron somehow and now you and Hader are alone is the reason why your stomach does the twisty thing it does.

You slowly grab your bottle and stay still with your back to him.

There’s no chatter or footsteps. It’s an unrecognizable silence. No footsteps _except_ his own – the one pair.

You feel a lecture coming on, and this feels strangely equivalent to being caught sneaking back into the house during high school.

“You and Taron getting along now?” He asks, feigning playful curiosity.

_Mighty_ playful considering your heart drops.

You’re acting _close_ now. You’ve been hanging out more, sitting with each other, not bickering about every little thing now.

Sure, it’s only been two days but _considering_ – this is big.

You turn and glare but try to laugh. “Yeah…? We always have, haven’t we?” You _dare him_ to object. You know where he’s coming from (not _all_ memories of Taron being too eccentric for your liking and being too much of a himbo have fled you) but doubt there’s anything he can say to that.

You jingle your water bottle and smile flatly at Hader; you came here for this, you’ve got it, _good-bye now._

But he seems so _confused_. So, you slow down the lecture-hall steps and drop your hand to your side. It takes energy to elicit the smirk you give him so often, but you manage and try to ease the tension with a laugh. “Why do you ask?”

He realizes you genuinely (maybe) have no idea about the chemistry he sees between you two.. This isn’t where you try to sneak an answer out of him. He doesn’t simply look surprised you ask.

He looks scared?

“You guys were…” He eyes the door “Hanging out just you two the other night? I kinda heh…thought he got on your nerves too much for that. Only ever see you both in group gatherings.”

You eye the door. “…How’d you know we were hanging out the other night?”

“Uhhhh…”

“Uhm…nevermind. Guess he’s…grown on me?” You plead with your eyes for him to either veto your realization or let you go.

Guess there just is something remarkably natural between you and Taron now. It’s only been two days, and as far as you know it’s less about your relationship and more about something Taron’s going through but still. This is different. You haven’t texted him anything like “I hate you,” or given him a death-stare.

“Why is everyone acting so weird lately?” you chuckle.

Paranoia is not a good look on you.

Hader squints. He almost says something, but the door squeaks open with that insufferable metal _squelch_ as Taron comes in.

He looks at you, looks at Hader, looks at the floor, and perks “Hey!” He’s smiling like a mad man’s behind him, and hastily nods for you to hurry and follow him out.

“Hey!” You shout, then rush down the steps, clutching your water bottle to your chest.

Taron gives you the room to slip past him.

You shout “Cya tomorrow!” and… _then the door’s closed_. And you don’t know, and don’t want to know if there was any detail Hader noticed between you and Taron during that interaction.

Taron scratches the back of his head and looks around. “What was that about?”

You crick your neck and urge him to keep walking. “Have we been acting differently? I mean, to each other?”

Taron looks you up and down, weary. He says stiffly, “I just thought you didn’t want to talk about it…”

You stare. “Talk about what?”

He battles the choice to smile or not. You aren’t smiling. You aren’t cheeky. So he tries to keep neutral. It doesn’t work – his face twists into a horribly confused and worried expression.

Quickly, “What did we do?” you spill

“No! We- no no – we didn’t do anything! You just sat on my lap then-” he slows down, trying to make sense of your morphing expression. “We..went to your _house_ –” and he reels it back in! “And I slept on the couch!” His hands are in the air, prepared for you to pounce on him (In a way you kind of _did)._

“Oh gosh.” You hold your head.

At this point you stop walking, breathe deep to calm your nerves, and point over your shoulder, “Is there any way for Professor Hader to know that?”

Taron freezes and tries to think about that night. He raises a brow hopefully. “I _think_ I remember Miss Chastain being there?”

You huff and press your tongue to your cheek. “Well…then I guess it’s safe to say he was too. And-” you chuckle. Taron, taken back, doubts it’s genuine. “I dunno, he probably saw us.” You rear your head and look at Taron with these puppy dog eyes. He doesn’t know what you expect him to do, and you don’t either.

He bites his lip and frowns. “I’m sorry if I uh, got in between anything-”

“Heh, if _anything_ I think this might be good-” you force through a hoarse voice.

“What do you mean by that?” Taron asks with a nervous laugh as he steps forward. _“What do you mean?”_

“Uh I just…” you giggle and can’t help the warmth you feel in your chest that scares out the cold. “I just _think_ that I should get tastes more in my…range? And that if _anything_ …” you take a peek at his face. He’s smiling at you like a goof, waiting in a “gotcha stance” with a finger pointed at you. _He will never shut up about this_. You roll your eyes and walk off, shouting behind you “If anything I guess I’m glad it’s you!”

You start walking backward, skipping almost as he follows.

“Glad it’s _me?!”_ He cackles.

“Theoretically! _Theoretically_ , if I was or am to get different tastes whether that be drunkenness induced confusion _or_ getting my other options spoiled by that drunkenness, I’m uh…glad they’re tastes like you?”

He squints at you and you wait for him to stop looking so doubtful.

He chuckles again. “If you say so.”

You’ve stopped walking. He struts up to you and leans dangerously close. He says as he passes, breath on your ear, “Let’s see how long this lasts.” Off he goes in your mutual direction. But you take a moment to rattle the possibility in your head…you shake it out, feeling too pressed to ponder over it now.

You swing around and follow Taron.

Yeah…let’s see how long this lasts.


End file.
